Return
by Karaii
Summary: As an Azkaban inmate in 1980 due to a strange time paradox, Harry tries to cope and survive in hell as he slowly returns to his own time.
1. Chapter 1

**R e t u r n**

**Summary:** As an Azkaban inmate in 1980 due to a strange time paradox, Harry tries to cope and survive in hell as he slowly returns to his own time.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of JK Rowling's amazing characters, nor do I remotely own the Harry Potter novels.

**

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Prologue - **_A Bad Day_

Harry James Potter was incarcerated in Azkaban on July 31, 1980, with a sentence of seven years, for the torture and consequent murder of one unarmed Peter Pettigrew, with added charges for killing an equally defenseless squib, here nameless.

Harry James Potter was actually born several hours before Harry James Potter was incarcerated, on the same day.

This strange occurrence has no real comprehendible explanation, and will, in the future, be labeled as an impossible phenomenon of time travel, even by magical standards. However, it _did_ happen, and Harry James Potter _was_ thrown into Azkaban for seven horrible years, despite his counterpart's innocent existence in the miserable Dursley household during his stay.

One might ask just how was this Harry James Potter was in Azkaban when he was not even of that particular timeline, and why one Albus Dumbledore did not vouch for him, or even why his own parents did not come to question his unexplainable appearance. Harry had been transported back in time by a strange influx of various curses aimed at him, causing his body to be warped into a strange sort of magical black hole…or at least, something of that sort. No one knows for sure, nor will they ever. It was one of those strange phenomenon situations that happen now and then, unexplainable even with modern technology—muggle or magical.

As for the reason of no one coming to his aid, the simple truth was that Harry _was_ guilty. Also, Albus Dumbledore was not aware of this trial, for he was away on a much-needed vacation in South America for two weeks, so he could not vouch for him. Even if he _were_ present, he would do no such thing, for Albus Dumbledore did not know this young man, and the stranger was most definitely guilty of his crime, all the proof lead to it; Veritaserum wasn't even necessary.

He had no reason to plead the green-eyed man's innocence. The Hogwarts Headmaster would, of course, later be informed of his trial—but it was a brief mention, not nearly enough to merit his attention. The news of the squib and wizard's deaths had only gained the old man's further sadness, but the criminal would only muster a sense of failure in Dumbledore, as if it were his fault that this anonymous young man had assassinated one Peter Pettigrew.

In some ways, it was his fault. Or _would_ be.

Harry Potter's parents were quite literally unaware of his existence—well, _that_ Harry's existence. They were, of course, aware of their little newborn baby's existence, the same Harry James Potter—but most definitely not their son-from-the-future. Nor would they ever, for they would be dead in a year and three month's time at the hands of one former Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Plus the Wizengamot was in a hurry because they also had to judge two recently captured Death Eaters and didn't have time to check the backgrounds of an obvious murderer, despite the similar name and probable relation to one James and Lily Potter. They didn't care if he was sixteen—after all, Wizard maturity came at seventeen and thus he would be considered an adult in merely a year's time. However, even then, it was only barely legal to throw him into Azkaban. This only came lawfully because of the severity of his crime.

Too bad they couldn't give him the Dementor's Kiss.

Everyone voted the stranger guilty—a year for the use of Unforgivables, two more years for the murder of a squib, another three for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and lastly, a year added out of pure spite. It was a trial that lasted less than half and hour, despite the murderer's unheard pleads to get Albus Dumbledore, the Order, anybody—after all, he had a Silencing Charm on.

Not soon after the Wizengamot's final word of the seven-year sentence, two Dementors glided in and grabbed the young man by the arms, leading him away. The convicted screamed in silence and struggled, his eyes dilating from the bad memories and utter _cold_. But no one felt pity for the recently sixteen year old, and the boy's face faded from their memory with time, letting his once vibrant green eyes rot within the thick walls of prison, forgotten.

Thus leading to Harry James Potter's long, miserable seven-year stay in Azkaban.

°°°

Peter Pettigrew Sr was not having the best of days.

His wand had been accidentally snapped because it had somehow found its way below one of the monstrous tires of those blasted moving things muggles used nowadays, and he now had to—embarrassingly enough—go to get it repaired for a handsome sum at Olivanders. To add insult to injury, he'd been mugged by chain-bearing teenagers and beaten to a pulp behind an alleyway in muggle London. He couldn't even call the ministry for aid, where he worked, out of lack of magical powers.

It was incredibly frustrating.

Currently he was limping towards his old friend's house, the squib christened as Reuben Malfoy though he preferred to go by Rob nowadays. Peter had never asked, but it was obvious that the man was still sore about being disowned after hiding his lack of magic for eleven years, despite the fact that this had occurred several decades ago. It had been a terrible embarrassment to the Malfoy family—so much that they'd simply proclaimed him dead instead of announcing they'd birthed a squib and hadn't noticed until his letter had failed to arrive.

They hadn't grieved his passing long.

Peter Pettigrew Sr winced as he knocked on the former Malfoy's door, attempting to ignore the pain of his muscles as he did so.

"Who's there?" came a gruff voice, hardened from anger over the years.

"Rob," Peter called out hoarsely, "Rob, are you there?"

"Oh, hey Peter! Is it you old chap?" The door opened, and the scruffy looking squib gave a startled gasp, "Oy! You don't look too good. What happened? Come in, come in!"

"It was awful, Rob," Pettigrew Sr said miserably, "Nastiest day of my life. It can't get any worse." He hobbled inside, grateful for his friend's help. "I was in muggle London today, looking for a gift for my son to give to those Potter friends he has, when my wand slipped and got turned into mush underneath one of those thingamaggigers muggles use these days for transportation…not much long after that I got kicked to a pulp and robbed off all my money…"

"Doesn't sound very pretty, friend," Rob sympathized, "Never had much love for muggles m'self. Need some cleaning up? I'll lend you my shower."

"No, no, that's alright, thanks. Do you have some floo here?"

"Er…yeah, I think. Um…lemme go look for it. Never use it m'self, so, dunno if it's still here…"

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

Pettigrew Sr sighed, wearily running a hand through his balding hair. He was not a particularly handsome man—he had large buckteeth and a rat-like demeanor, despite his good intents. He had a chubby face that lacked the usual Hufflepuff amiableness, watery blue eyes and a stubby nose. His clothing was in tatters and his hair a mess, but that could easily be corrected with a quick charm or so.

As a former Hufflepuff it had been difficult to gain a good position in the Ministry, but he'd managed—and quite well, in his opinion. He had a good annual salary, a good family, good job…he wasn't rich by any stretch of the means, but he got by. Right now he was sufficiently high up to be recognized by the Minister—he'd even spoken to the man on a few occasions, too! He was an ambitious man and hoped to go even higher.

"Here we go," came Rob's voice from one of his stuffy closets, "Found it!"

"Good, good," Peter murmured, "Thank you. I'm sorry for the trouble."

"Oh no trouble at all, friend," the squib said amiably as he emerged from the mess, "You get yourself fixed up, okay? Send me a call by the telephone once you're feeling better."

"Fellytone?" Pettigrew Sr asked bewilderedly as he accepted the floo powder.

Rob chuckled, "Never mind. Send me an owl, then."

"Right," Peter said, still sort of puzzled, "I'll do that. Thanks again."

Peter Pettigrew would've used the floo power and traveled to St Mungo's. He would've gotten himself patched up efficiently and quickly, and returned safely to his house. He would've gotten home and told his wife about his ordeal and eventually looked back and laughed at it. He would've gotten his broken wand fixed, and his life would've continued on as usual.

He would've lived a happy life.

If only he hadn't been killed.

Just as Peter Pettigrew Sr was about to throw the floo powder into the fireplace and speak the necessary words, a loud _CRACK_ interrupted his motions, startling them both. Almost immediately after, a scream of utter fury erupted behind him.

"_WORMTAIL_!"

It was a cry of total anger and hate, an icy statement that would chill the bones. It was the shrill howl of a lunatic blinded by the single-minded need for vengeance.

Both squib and wizard turned around, frightened and bewildered and scared, seeing only a young man about sixteen with a mop of wild black hair and blazing green eyes, the eyes of a madman, a murderer—

"_Peter Pettigrew_," the raven-haired devil hissed the words with dripping hate, words that were not of the English language but yet still somewhat comprehendible. Then, sounds that should've never come from a human's mouth emerged from the young man's throat, spitting and hissing like an angry snake.

Frozen, Peter Pettigrew Sr looked utterly confused and scared to the point of pissing himself, his watery eyes filled with fear. "Who are you?" he managed to squeak, terrified. "What do you want with me?"

The green-eyed lunatic shrieked with fury, "Do you not recognize me, you sniveling cowardMurderer_…you dare question just who I am_?" he visibly calmed down, and his eyes half-closed as if bored, his back slouching slightly, "Well…you always were a rat…"

"What do you want with me?" Peter whispered again, horrified, backing away slightly, away from those insane eyes. Rob had already retreated behind the closet door, very nearly pissing himself in an attempt to remain silent while he witnessed his friend's possible last living moments.

The stranger grinned, crazy-like, cat-like…_snake-like_…

"I only want to watch you writhe in pain, you filthy rat…I want to watch you _scream_…" An idea came. _The rat was cornered_. The smile widened, "_Crucio_."

Pettigrew Sr screamed. Unimaginable pain raced through his body, from the tips of his eyelashes to the hairs on his toes, it was only pain, pain, _pain…_

"How do you like that, _Wormtail_? Did my parents feel this at their last moments? Did Sirius? How does it feel…the pain of all those innocent people you've killed and betrayed? _HOW DOES IT FEEL_?"

Screams. Rob watched in horror as Peter began frothing at the mouth.

"No…you will feel worse. Much worse. _Worse you sonnova bitch_! _CRUCIO_!"

"STOP!" Rob screamed from behind his hiding place, his words coming by themselves in a last ditch attempt to save the withering sanity of his only wizard friend, "STOP YOU MADMAN! YOU FUCKING PSYCHO! STOP! _STOP_!"

"SHUT UP YOU BASTARD!" Suddenly the stranger's wand swiveled in the direction of the squib, "HE DOESN'T DESERVE TO LIVE! _AVADA KEDAVRA_!"

The green light was the last thing Reuben Malfoy ever saw.

There was a moment of silence as the depth of the deed hit the young man. His smile faded, and a panicked look emerged from within him, his eyes startled. He'd killed someone. Killed. It was different from torture, which didn't always lead to death. He'd killed. Perhaps not an innocent, and perhaps he'd done the world some good, but he'd nonetheless killed someone that was not exactly involved.

He'd killed someone.

There was no turning back.

"Look what you made me do, Wormtail," the raven-haired man whispered softly, deadly, "Look what my hate for you has made me…" he grinned once again, widely, the intense feeling of casting the dark spells making him feel a thrill he'd never felt before. "_Crucio! Crucio! CRUCIO!_"

Peter screamed and screamed and screamed—

"_AVADA KEDAVRA_!"

And there was silence.

Ten aurors barged into the house seconds after the final green light, and immediately disarmed and arrested one Harry James Potter. His wand, when cast by _Priori Incantatem_ showed only Unforgivables, sufficient proof of his crime. Despite this, his trail merely merited a small paragraph on the second page of the Daily Prophet, largely overshadowed by the capture of two Death Eaters that had once had a very high position in society.

He was forgotten by the court members soon after, nameless to those who would know him in the future, locked away in Hell. All perhaps one lone Peter Pettigrew, son of the victim murdered, who would vaguely remember the name of Harry James as something other than his best friend's son.

Yet, despite this…

He would be otherwise forgotten and nameless until the day he returned to the world…bitter and half-crazed.

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Thanks for reading!

**Author's Notes: **This was written in April, so it's a bit old. Only just recently have I started writing again, so I thought it would be alright if I started posting this fic. I have up to chapter 9 as of yet. The next chapter should be posted by next Sunday.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's rather embarassed note: **Okay, here's my excuse as to why it took me two weeks to get an already-done 3000 word chapter up: MY COMPUTER DIED. Literally. Lost 85 of the motherboard and had to have it replaced and I was internet-deprived for a week, leading me to pass Metal Gear Solid 3 once again IN THREE FREAKIN HOURS. Yes. I was that desprete xD Set a new record, probably.

In any case, at least this is up now. Hopefully it's good :3 Tell me what you think!

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**Chapter 2  
**_Managing Sanity_

The return of Harry's lucidity came six months after his first day in Azkaban.

For six long months he'd been nothing more than a babbling madman. He'd relived his worst memories a thousand times over every single day, and his mind had, understandably, broken under the strain. Yet now, he was getting better. Better not in the sense of health, for he was a walking skeleton—not much walking involved, though—but more of a mental sort of stability.

He wasn't, by any stretch of the word, sane. Oh no. He'd cracked and crumbled, turned to dusty ashes of his former being. A crazed guilty convict: that was what Harry James Potter was reduced to. But he was pulling his mind back together. Thinking hurt, yes, but at least his thoughts no longer revolved around memories. He'd subconsciously made himself temporarily forget everything in order to make Dementors loose interest. And slowly, during those periods of time, he would try to piece himself back together.

It wasn't easy.

Harry no longer thought of himself as Harry, for that brought memories that he'd rather not think about. He thought of himself as a being of vengeance, a person that was living only with the determination not to die. He did not think of the little over six and a half years that were left of his sentence, for that brought the mixed feeling of hope and despair, which was never a good combination here in Azkaban. Thinking of revenge was not a joyful thought, for revenge was a cold feeling, neither happy or sad.

Vengeance not against the world, like a number of darker wizards would've considered. He did not blame the wizarding jury for doing its duty, nor did he blame the people that had failed him for not being there for him. He did not blame time, nor did he blame the people that condemned him to this hell. In fact, he no longer blamed himself for the murder of the nameless squib and the nameless wizard—names were unnecessary, for names brought memories, and memories brought dementors and so forth.

This revenge would not be carried out against any living being out of a sense of blame, or a misguided belief of raw emotion like the one that had resulted in the deaths of two souls. It was a revenge of self, a mandatory action that would release Harry; that would let him _move on_, so to speak. This revenge was not explainable, nor comprehendible to anyone else other than himself. Had anybody been interested in knowing what was on his mind, it would be impossible to try to transit this powerful, insane notion.

It was his revenge that would keep him coherent, that wouldn't let him die. That would persist in his mind regardless of the pain, that little nagging feeling that would constantly bite him until it was accomplished. It would keep him alive and make him survive.

Another week was the time it took Harry to conceive the idea to ask what time it was, simply to take account of how long he'd been in this Hell. Perhaps it wouldn't aid his blind determination, but it would sure help to be informed. Besides, it would be useful to discover if there was a possibility of conversing with the passing aurors…he'd yet to encounter a friendly one.

Maybe it would lead to nothing good, but Harry hadn't thought that far.

"What day is it?" Harry James Potter croaked his first real words in months to a passing lone auror, startling the man only slightly.

"What?" the nameless auror asked crankily, craning his head to look at the disgusting prisoner in cell 426. He wrinkled his nose distastefully at the sudden stench. They would get their mandatory cleaning charms on the morrow, so the double week's gathering of filth on their skin and clothing made the bony convicts smell something terrible.

And tomorrow, the auror thought gleefully, it would be the end of the week for him, and he'd be going back to his nice, warm office back at the Ministry…New Years with his family, celebrate it with wine…he made an effort to stop that train of thought before he attracted any more Dementors—he'd yet to encounter one today, and he didn't want to break that record anytime soon.

"What day is it?" Harry repeated, coughing harshly as his raw throat protested. He hadn't spoken in a while, after all.

The pale-looking auror raised an eyebrow speculatively, perhaps wondering why an Azkaban prisoner on level four wanted to know the date. Nonetheless, despite whatever he was thinking, he delivered the message dutifully. "December 31," he said. "You missed Christmas." He added, stating the obvious.

Harry vaguely remembered the total lack of aurors for a few days. Must've been the holidays, then. "Year?" he asked hopefully.

The auror sneered, "1980." Without another word, the nameless man swiveled around and walked away, his loud steps echoing down the stone halls.

_Nineteen eighty_.

Harry closed his eyes. He couldn't help but feel hopeless, at the sound of those words. So many years…and how? Even with the Dementor's unhealthy aid, he still hadn't been able to figure out just how the hell he'd come back so many years in time. No amount of mental raping would make him understand just how he'd jumped back one hundred ninty-two months, now one hundred eighty-six, if you made a quick mental count.

He sighed.

Uncounted minutes passed, maybe several hours spent in silence. The window in his cell—unnecessarily barred for it was charmed unbreakable—displayed only the occasional ripple of water. After all, he was beneath the seas. Below the surface, the water was amazingly calm looking from his point of view. He rarely gazed outside anymore, because it was always the same dull gray-blue. No fish swam by his window, because no fish in their right mind would come near Azkaban. Harry doubted there was a single living creature—animal or human—living within a mile from Azkaban, besides the prisoners and aurors.

Dementors didn't count.

Harry had noticed the lack of Dementors patrolling on the fourth floor. He hadn't felt chilly all day besides the natural coldness of the stones he sat upon. At least, he hadn't felt any Dementor-induced cold, which was a blessed relief. He briefly wondered for a half-amused second if the Dementors were having a day off for New Years. The following second was spent hoping they really were having a day off. The next coming ticks of a nonexistent clock were spent berating himself for such an unthinkable thought.

In a way, Harry had come to get used to the Dementor's sucking coldness and the auror's patrolling footsteps and sometimes the different voices of their taunts. It was strange to feel absolutely Dementor-free, even if it was only for one day. He came to suppose it was the Ministry's way of saying _Happy New Years, suckers_. He chuckled at the thought, but automatically dismissed it almost immediately after it was conceived, in fear of being attacked.

Nothing came.

Lured into a sense of fragile security, Harry cautiously allowed himself to think of his other counterpart. Somewhere out there, in a warm fuzzy home, his baby self was probably contentedly playing with his father or giggling at his mother's cooed words. He realized that, a few days ago, he had experienced his one and only Christmas with his parents. Actually, he remembered slowly, the only Christmas he would get for another eleven years. He felt dully bitter about that fact, but it didn't bother him much now.

It was in the past…or in the future.

Harry shook his head. No sense in burning the remaining functioning brain neurons in his head by contemplating the quantum physics of time travel. He sighed to himself again, allowing himself a small smile. It would be New Years on the morrow, and millions of people worldwide would be celebrating it. _Not the Chinese_, he corrected himself, recalling an old history lesson back in primary school. The Chinese had the Chinese New Year in February (or was it January?), he knew.

_Well_, he mused. He could celebrate the Chinese New Year in his cold little cell too, if he managed to remember it.

With that thought, it struck him that he was, indeed, quietly celebrating New Years in his own way right now, by pausing to think about it. But why? It wasn't as if the coming year would be very good. It was actually going to be very gloomy twelve-month period of time.

The year nineteen eighty-one would be a total wreck of shit.

His parents would die next year. Sirius would be thrown in Azkaban. Well…maybe he'd be able to talk to Sirius. But now Harry wouldn't wish Azkaban on anyone, and hoped against hope Sirius would be able to cope with it quicker than he had. The poor man would be here longer, too.

Thinking about Sirius and his parent's deaths inevitably lead him to think about Peter.

Ah yes, little sniveling Peter.

Hate that he'd thought he'd cast away rose within him, a deep curdling darkness gnawing at the edges of his mind. He was guilty for killing one Peter Pettigrew, yes, though it had been the wrong one. In the future, he vowed to himself darkly, the true guilty Wormtail would die by his hand, preferably without magic. He wouldn't mind feeling the little rat squirm beneath his fingers as he choked the life out of him…

He grinned manically, reminiscence of the smile he wore at the murder of Reuben Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew.

Inevitably, however, all of these thoughts brought upon the Dementors that had been previously preoccupied with sucking the life out of an unfortunate neighbor several cells down. Harry's thoughts were dark and not quite happy, but the soul-sucking creatures were nonetheless attracted due to the power of his feelings.

_So much for New Years resolution_, Harry thought with a tint of lunacy as all of his painful memories surfaced and consumed him once again.

°°°

Time, strangely, passed quicker once he got himself together again.

There were obvious moments when his previous all-consuming insanity took over him. After all, one can never be perfect again after experiencing Azkaban. But he became more talented at remaining conscious, despite being mind-raped by the ever-hungry Dementors daily. He was able to separate himself from the other part of his mind that was reliving his most horrible recollections, and think independently.

Like an out-of-body experience.

Harry had actually managed to toast to Chinese New Years in February—or at least, on a day of February—by means of holding his plate of gruel and swallowing it up in one gulp, cheering himself on for yet another holiday reached and remembered. Dementors had flocked to him instantly, but it hadn't been quite so bad as before. Indeed, his mind was left aching and his body speckled with ice, but at least he had been able to keep his thoughts collected.

Of course, he wasn't thinking things like: _This is nice. I wonder when this is going to end? Anytime now, anytime…_

It was more along the lines of: _Oh shit I hate that memory…eugh, was I really that puny back then_?

Okay maybe not like that, either, but you get my point.

Harry was no longer dominated by the Dementor's influences and the constant return of his bad memories. He couldn't move around very well when the damned creatures were outside his cell, duh, but at least he could think of other things besides his recalled experiences while being Dementor-ized, as he now called it. Fancy name, eh?

In order to keep a somewhat sensible knowledge of passing time, Harry took to keeping a vaguely accurate scratched-out tally mark chart calendar with a loose rock on the floor, proclaiming the number of days he thought had passed. The weeks had flown by so fast that, before he was properly conscious of it, July was once again around the corner, proclaiming that Harry had actually survived his first year at Azkaban. To anybody else, this would've been perhaps depressing. But to Harry, this was a triumph—a mark that he was stronger than the pull of death. Sure, he'd had his suicidal moments—head banging not included—but he'd managed to overcome them and_ win_.

_Take that_, he thought to himself gleefully.

Perhaps his reckless glee was born out of insanity. He'd never really know. But he didn't care—he was alive, and that was all that mattered. Obsessively, he counted down the months until he would be back to his own time. Only one hundred eighty now, with a few days, give or take.

It was only a matter of time now.

He giggled at his own joke.

"Happy Birthday, Harry," he whispered to himself on the last day of July, and to his counterpart out there in the world.

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Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys! Here's chapter 3 :) Hope you like it! In case you were unaware, this story will have mild bits of slash, but nothing really graphic I hope. I will have to warn you about the MASSIVE ABUSE OF LANGUAGE XD My vocabulary is crude, I admit, but I won't hide it. There are lots of instances where characters will scream obsenities you probably wouldn't repeat in front of your grandmother. Otherwise, it's pretty clean...I guess. Have fun reading!

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing D:

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**Chapter 3 - **_Cellmate_

It was coming closer to _that day_.

Harry knew that he could do nothing. Nothing he did would change what happened, what _would happen_. No amount of screaming and pleading for someone to protect the Potters, to save his parents, to kill the traitor—nothing would stop the inevitable.

It did not stop him from trying.

He knew not a single thing further than the fact that it was October. He knew the end was nigh, and he felt a terrible sadness and anger for it. Hate of Wormtail rekindled once again, his soul screaming for vengeance, for blood, for justice. He cursed the Gods of Fate and everything on this side of the green earth, anything to save them, those whom he had never met.

In moments of calm that were not struck with his sudden fury, he wondered what Wormtail was feeling. Did he feel guilty of betraying his life-long friends? Was he happy? What did that scumbag feel? Was he even capable of feeling? He wondered if his parents were even remotely aware of what was to become of them. He pondered if Sirius knew just what kind of bleak future was ahead of him. If Remus knew the solitary silence filled with world-weary bitterness he would experience for thirteen years—even more, then!

On one of his more frequent attacks of shrieking nonsense, an auror had gotten so pissed off at him that he'd simply stunned him, gathered up a troop of two other companions, and dumped him one level down on his new room number 581, where most recently captured Death Eaters resided at. It was no different than his cell upstairs besides the fact that he now had a smaller space and closer prison-mates.

He would've actually been able talk to the person in front of him, through their heavily barred wall leading outside to the hall, had the other been cooperative rather than catatonic. The poor bloke would probably die soon, Harry thought sympathetically, if he didn't eat or move around. Aurors wouldn't spoon-feed anyone, much less the dying Death Eaters on this level.

It was everyone for themselves, and bad luck to you if you couldn't take care of yourself.

Harry looked down at his own ribs, and was shocked to realize he could easily, very easily, count them. In fact, all of the muscle he'd been building up over the years was utterly gone. His face was sunken in, his skin dangerously pale from a total lack of sunlight. He'd, of course, known that he was no longer as healthy as he used to be. One year and three months of shit and Dementors and aurors could do that to you.

Yet now, he came to realize, he was literally a walking skeleton.

But at least he could still walk, thankfully. More like wobble around his tiny seven squared feet cell once every week, to keep his blood moving. Running, however, was impossible. How _had_ Sirius managed to one; turn into his animagus form, two; slip out of his cell, three; run away outside, four; _swim all the fucking way to land_, and lastly, five; survive out there all alone…?

It was unthinkable. But it inspired Harry to get himself back together, body and soul included.

Early one October morning when he was carefully walking around his cell to keep his muscles from completely disintegrating, he heard two patrolling aurors were bickering between themselves, their voices instantly catching Harry's attention.

"Damn it, Moody, you don't understand! I've got a newborn baby back at home, and she's waiting for me!"

"You lazy idiot," an incredibly familiar voice berated harshly, "This is your duty. One measly holiday won't kill you."

"It's Halloween today, Moody," yet another horribly familiar voice insisted, "I promised little Bill and Charley and Percy I'd go out with them for treats."

"You've got seven little young uns back there that can entertain themselves, they can wait a day." The grizzly auror continued in exasperation, "And besides, that's a muggle tradition, Arthur. What are you becoming?"

"Muggles are interesting!" The very Mr Weasley defended himself, "They're really smart." He sighed, "Moody, I _promised_."

"Look, I can't do anything about it. Constant Vigilance, that's what I always say! You should've known your second week at Azkaban would interfere with your Haho…deen…thing."

Harry's heart suddenly began beating at an extremely quick rate. This was Arthur Weasley and Alastor Mad-Eye Moody. Out there. Just beyond his cell.

He went crazy.

"MR WEASLEY!" he screamed, his voice hoarse but nonetheless loud, "MR WEASLEY! Please, for the love of Merlin, please kill the rat, Wormtail, please, please, save them, _save them_—"

"What the hell?" Moody exclaimed, his wand immediately pointed at the babbling convict, "_Stupefy_!"

"No please, you don't understand, Voldemort, PLEASE OH MERLIN PLEASE STOP THEM—" Harry fell down cold.

"Moody!" Arthur cried, "You…you _stupefied_ him!"

"The madman deserved it," Moody grunted, "Death Eater, most likely. He knew you; said your name."

"I don't know him, or at least I don't recognize him," the red-haired man admitted cautiously, eyeing the fallen prisoner mystified, "But maybe he saw me at the Ministry or something." He shrugged, still slightly in shock at Moody's hasty actions.

"He cried out Voldemort."

Mr Weasley flinched at the name and fidgeted nervously, glancing around the mostly catatonic criminals around him, as if they might suddenly cry out in claim for the Dark Lord's triumph. His red hair was stark contrast to the Azkaban gray walls as he turned back to the _Stupefy_-ed individual, "But…he was saying something about _saving them_…"

"And killing a stupid rat. His mind has probably rotted. Let's move on."

"But…" Mr Weasley protested faintly, then sighed. "Oh well…"

Harry struggled against the spell quietly, unmoving, in an effort to break the curse. He was weeping inside, knowing that today was his parent's end (_Halloween, the day when the dead walk the Earth_), the final finish, the temporary disappearance of Voldemort. He wanted to run, he wanted to go and somehow save them, save his parents, somehow, somehow…

But it was futile.

And he knew it.

°°°

The spell would've remained intact for seventeen more hours—Moody was and would continue to be a very powerful wizard—had it not been interrupted by a sudden influx of magical residue slamming through his scar, breaking the spell several hours later. It was pain beyond pain, green light flashing below his eyelids and illuminating his world, pain, only pain, _pain_…

More horrible than the _Cruciatus_, more terrible than any other curse…

His scar was open and bleeding and his screams echoed across the lone hallways of Azkaban prison, the Death Eaters than shared his hallway also raising their voices in shrill accompaniment as their Dark Marks burned to a fading pink tattoo on their arms. Moody and Arthur looked around wildly at the screaming convicts, confused and alarmed at their actions. Mad-Eye began by shooting stunners every direction he could, but nothing would stop the joint crescendo of pain-filled wails.

"What on Earth--?" Mr Weasley exclaimed, though his voice was drowned out by the screams.

The Dementors were, inexplicably, wailing as well, as if mourning something. Azkaban prison was filled with mind-shattering shrieks, causing the sixteen aurors on patrol complete and utter bafflement. They panicked and ran to their Ministry-located Headquarters, only four staying back to guard their posts, shivering in their boots at the screams that continued to rebound off the stone walls.

That day, the Ministry was aflame with the cries of Death Eaters that walked right under their noses, panic and total chaos reigning everywhere as people tried to make sense of what was happening. It would only be many hours later that Albus Dumbledore would announce Voldemort's demise by the single hands of one tiny Harry James Potter. The Wizarding World broke out in relief, rejoicing the death of the century's worst Dark Lord.

Lily and James Potter's sacrifices were forever engraved in stone, and all around the Wizarding world affected by Voldemort's reign, wizards lifted their cups in cheers for Harry James Potter's unknowing triumph, the Boy-Who-Lived.

°°°

Harry James Potter—seventeen years old and having survived one year and three months of Azkaban—broke down crying.

He crawled into a corner and sobbed, weeping for the loss of his parents and everything that had gone wrong today. He wanted to tell the world that this was only the eye of the storm; that Voldemort would be back, he'd be back…

His tears leaked out of his eyes, mixing with the blood trailing down his forehead, both dropping forgotten on the cold stone floor as he rocked himself back and forth. This was only the beginning of the pain that was to come, the war that would arrive in a decade's time of passing. Innocents would be lost and guilty would run free, run wild to kill and massacre more people.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

The following week, even the near-catatonic Harry noticed a sudden coming of more prisoners. The levels were filled with Death Eaters that had once fought alongside Voldemort, and others involved and captured after the destruction of their Lord. The Dementors—who would otherwise be delighted at so many new fresh souls—were silent and bowed; quietly mourning the one they'd been allied to for a few days, out of an impressive human-like sense of respect. Soon they would come back to their natures and return to their feeding, but as of yet, they were quiet.

Filled with triumph, aurors would gleefully torture the Death Eaters residing there, taunting them more than ever before, spitting in their faces when they insisted their Lord would rise again. Rejoicing, the Ministry piled hundreds upon hundreds of Death Eaters and accused criminals into Azkaban, pumping the prison to its limits.

It came to be, that first week of November, that there were so many new inmates now, that aurors had to place two in one cell in many of the little chambers.

Like several other long-term prisoners, Harry was given a cellmate. The man was thrown in similar like Harry had been when he'd first come, giving a slight grunt when he hit the floor. The aurors laughed and joked and cursed as they walked away, throwing more prisoners into their new 'homes'.

The new cellmate of his said nothing, half-crawling half-walking to the other corner of the room, limping slightly. Harry himself was still curled up in the other extreme, trying to conserve warmth. It made him feel sort of happy that he had a companion, yet at the same time it inspired a dull sort of hate towards the being beside him that was probably a Death Eater. Harry didn't know what to feel, really, but supposed it would only be right to ask the other's name.

No one ever claimed this Harry was sane.

"Who're you?" Harry asked curiously, a bit harshly since his voice still raw from his screaming the previous week. "I'm Harry."

The other said nothing. He didn't even move. Harry shrugged, and turned his head.

A few minutes later, Harry glanced again at the figure. Nope, still not moving. A familiar chill crept into his body, and he automatically wrapped the rags around him tighter. He shivered as his mother's screams began wailing in his head, her pleading repeating over and over in his head…her voice quickly changed into Voldemort's high-pitched laugh, his voice triumphant…

Vaguely, in that part of his mind that was detached from his body and memories, he could hear his cellmate whimpering. It wasn't a very dignified whimpering, but then again, nobody could remain very dignified in the presence of a soul-sucking Dementor. Harry wondered what the other was seeing. They obviously consisted of worst memories, but Harry pondered just what voices haunted his new cellmate.

The other should better get used to it, he thought bitterly. After all, it came at all unexpected times of the day.

The Dementors lost interest quickly enough, probably preferring the pleading victim a few cells down the hall. Harry was grateful. Despite all the resistance he'd built up over the past year or so, it was never pretty to be faced against those monsters. He shivered again. Awful things, Dementors were.

His cellmate whimpered again, despite the retreating cold. Harry supposed the poor Death Eater bloke was suffering from the drastic change of temperature, or the lack of food. Maybe he'd been transferred down here, from the nicer cells above, and was dealing with the change. Suddenly, the new prisoner cried out and groaned a terrible moan, trying to disappear into the wall. Harry felt pity for his cellmate—he could only barely remember the several months of mindless madness he'd experienced, and that was on level four.

This was level five.

Harry thought of this new prisoner. Probably a Death Eater, yes, murderer as well perhaps, but weren't they all? Harry, too, was a killer. They were companions in the same room, here in Hell. Wasn't it only right to help each other? He glanced another peek at the shivering figure.

"You cold?" he asked, his voice breaking the stiff silence. "Dumb question," he muttered to himself a second later, shaking his wild locks of hair, scratching his itchy beard absently.

Harry would've been proud of his growing whiskers had he been in any other circumstance. Now his long, shaggy hair and badly trimmed beard were merely nuisances. Dirt and crap got everywhere, too, making prisoner's hair turn into disgusting dread-locks. Aurors periodically cast severing charms on prisoner's hair and beard the days they went around doing cleaning charms, so they wouldn't be growing hair everywhere, but they were hasty and badly cast.

They weren't held responsible if the prisoner's accidentally lost a bit of their chin or scalp in the process, either.

Hee-hee-_hee_.

"It'll get worse before it gets better," Harry said aloud, directed towards the cellmate. He grinned, crazy-like again, his eyes dead, "Actually, it never gets better." He stopped, considering his words. A frown. "Well, you kind of get used to it, I suppose."

The other didn't move.

"Hey, hey, don't die on me." Harry said cheerfully, or as cheerful as his voice could go in their joint situation, "We don't get to talk here much, in Azkaban."

Nothing.

Harry grinned, an idea forming in his head. "Voldemort's a bastard, eh?"

Unexpectedly, the prisoner on the other corner shifted, but not much. "Voldemort," he said again, forcefully. The cellmate moved slightly, black eyes appearing underneath his rags, glaring.

"Do not speak the Dark Lord's name," the other growled, voice harsh.

Harry frowned. Definitely a Death Eater, then.

_Hey_, Harry realized suddenly. The voice was _definitely_ familiar.

"What's your name?" Harry asked once more. Then, when he received no answer, he continued on threateningly, "Or I'll keep saying Voldemort." He sucked in his breath and began to sing quite crudely, "Voldemort, Voldemort, _Voldemort_—"

"_Do not speak his name_!" The cellmate hissed, and jumped at him.

Harry wasn't as weak as many prisoners here in Azkaban, but he was nowhere near as strong as a recently arrived Death Eater that had not spent a year in Hell. He managed to exchange a few blows in their undignified scuffle, but the other easily won the contest of strength, and concluded the fight by pounding his head twice against the wall. After Harry didn't get up, the new arrival grunted and slithered away to his corner again.

Harry's head was spinning.

"Ow," he stated a few minutes after the pounding, "That hurt, you maniac."

The other glared at him incredulously; probably thinking _this guy is insane_. "Look who's talking," the prisoner spat, eyes piercing his own rudely, ever glaring.

Suddenly, Harry realized who this was.

"_Snape_?" he asked, his voice containing a bit of the horrified awe at the revelation.

The other grunted, eyeing him, as if to ask: _Do I know you_?

He laid his eyes on his vicious cellmate, and knew it to be true. The black eyes, greasy hair…he didn't look quite as recognizable without the familiar flowing black robes, but it was the same face, the same hooked nose…the man obviously looked much younger, though his eyes were equally haunted.

Harry closed his eyes, falling silent. _Ah shit_. Fucking shit. Fuck. _Fuck_. He was in Azkaban with a seven-year sentence; more than a decade in the past, stuck in this time; and to make matters worse than what they were already, he was locked on the fifth level with _Snape_, his future Potions teacher.

"_Fuck_."

"Indeed," Snape said snidely, and Harry cursed again.

* * *

Thanks for reading! 


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Once again, I apologize for the lateness of this chapter. My computer finally gave out a few days ago and my dad wiped it clean. I am therefore extremely happy that I saved my fanfiction archive a few weeks back on a CD. I lost Chapter 10 but at least I still have enough to keep going D Hope you enjoy this chappy!

* * *

**Chapter 4 - **_Surviving Together_

In order to make more space, aurors _accidentally_ began forgetting to feed the prisoners. Convicts would begin to starve, living on their rags if it came to be, many falling dead after two weeks. For those cells filled with two prisoners, usually only one plate of gruel would be served for both, twice a day. Aurors, you see, enjoyed looking at the fights that would ensue between two cellmates over food.

They got a particularly nice show in cell 581.

Neither Snape nor Harry were keen on starving to death. Both had their reasons to continue their dwindling existence, thus leading to daily fights on who got to eat and who didn't. Besides, the act of struggling against each other gave them a sort of sense of persistent survival that urged them on and kept them somewhat sane in this place of Hell, similar to Harry's feelings of vengeance that had nurtured him in his first year here. Harry often wondered what kept Snape going—he himself had the weight of the Prophecy on him and his future self still ahead of him, but Snape, he realized now, had no one.

Except perhaps Dumbledore, or maybe even the hope that his Lord would rise again, though Harry somehow doubted this.

But the old man apparently wasn't working very hard on letting Snape go, for the poor bloke was still down here. He hadn't even managed to get himself a nicer cell upstairs, like most of the other influential Death Eaters around here. Lucius Malfoy had already wriggled himself out of level five and got a nice cell up on level two, according to some angry, bickering aurors. Soon, Harry knew, the slippery Death Eater would get himself out of Azkaban.

But what about Snape?

The man obviously would survive; otherwise he wouldn't have become a teacher in the future. Somehow, Dumbledore was going to get the man out. Not any time soon, it seemed. It had been a month after Snape had arrived, and he hadn't gotten any aid. The man would stare at the wall for hours, as if waiting for something that had not yet come. This inspired a brief sort of pity in Harry, when he looked at the once-formidable man.

Though most of the time, Harry too, tended to spend long hours staring at the walls and thinking of his own savior that would never arrive.

°°°

Apparently, he came to note some time later, Snape was giving up.

Their fights over the small plate of gruel weren't as drastic anymore, and, Harry realized, he was winning much more often than the greasy Death Eater these days as well. It alarmed him—after all, as much as he hated the spiteful young Snape, he wouldn't wish death upon the other. He knew the man was rightfully bitter, for his life had been quite shitty, if the memories Harry had of Snape's pensive where anything to go by.

Other than pity, it also made Harry furious. How dare that greasy git start to give up?

"Why won't you fight?" Harry asked, two months after that fateful day of Voldemort's death and the triumph of the Boy-Who-Lived. He'd rushed to get the plate of gruel that had appeared before them, but Snape hadn't followed. In fact, he hadn't even moved. The aurors had wandered off a few minutes ago, disappointed at the lack of action.

Snape hadn't even seemed to notice anyone or anything, really.

"Aren't you hungry?" Harry taunted with a crazy grin, "I'm going to eat it."

Nope. Nothing. It struck a chord in him, and he shivered at the thought of being alone here again, with only the Dementor's cold breaths and auror's jeering taunts for the entirety of the next half-decade.

"Oy," he hissed, and inched to where Snape was sitting, in his official corner. "Don't you fucking give up."

The black eyes didn't flicker. They seemed dead.

Harry was frightened now. Cautiously, he extended a hand and prodded the frozen figure. Indeed, the Death Eater was stiff and cold, mind and body eaten gradually away by the Dementor's constant nibbling. There still was no response when Harry nervously shoved Snape harder, slightly toppling him over.

"Oy, hey," Harry whispered this time, hoarsely, "Please don't die."

Nothing.

It came as a sort of terrible revelation that Snape was dying. Harry had been dying all these months himself, but he hadn't let his body go. Snape was, apparently, in the process of doing so. Harry James Potter did not know Severus Tobias Snape. He did not know what haunted the man, or what crimes he'd committed in his Death Eater youth, or what further crimes he would commit in his spying future.

He knew next to nothing of him.

By all means, Harry should be delighted the man was dying. He was a Death Eater, like Pettigrew, an enemy of his parents, a supporter of Voldemort.

But, against every single shred of hate he'd held for this man, he didn't want him to die.

"Don't die," he pleaded to the other under his breath, rubbing his filthy hands up and down his cellmate's arm in a desperate attempt to keep the warmth coming, "Don't you dare fucking die on me…"

Snape merely stared ahead.

Harry glanced at the plate of gruel, and then looked outside, at the empty corridor. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. Slowly, feeling stupid and foolish but no less determined, he dipped a finger into the mush and let it hover in front of Snape's mouth. He would've used a spoon if the aurors had provided one, but they hadn't—bastards. Snape didn't even open his mouth, or look at the offending finger slick with the crappy food.

"Come on," he coaxed softly, "Come on, you bastard. Open your mouth."

No response.

"Alright, you asked for it," Harry grunted, his dull green eyes hardening.

He clutched the other man's jaw firmly with his other hand, forcing it open without a care for being gentle. His nose wrinkled as he smelled Snape's mouth odor, though he suspected his own stank as well, and made no comment. Trying not to feel too disgusted, he hastily wiped his finger on the convict's tongue and drew it away.

"Tasty, huh?" he muttered as he grabbed a little more mush and piled it onto Snape's tongue, closing the man's jaw firmly. "Come on, swallow it you asshole."

To his surprise, the man did just that.

"Oh you fucking…" Harry scowled and let go of Snape, "You were awake all along, weren't you? This is what I get for an act of _charity_…"

However, despite the man's initial reaction to his command, he did no further. Harry sulked for a while before realizing this, and crawled over again, waving his hand in front of Snape's hardly blinking eyes. "Oookay…" he murmured, befuddled. "Jerk," he continued, taking a bit of the meal for himself for good measure, hoping that would be enough to awaken the other from the strange stupor. He sighed and rolled his eyes, still slightly worried when Snape didn't shift an inch at the insult.

"You owe me for this," he growled a minute later, and finger-fed the rest of the crap into Snape's mouth, ordering the other to swallow when necessary. Over the course of this, the greasy-haired man ate almost totally unconsciously, not really noticing what was going on. After finishing with this, Harry sighed and patted Snape's shoulder slightly.

"I hate you," he muttered, "But I can't let you die. Does that make sense? No? Ah shit…I'm not cut out to do this…"

Snape's body suddenly stiffened and Harry felt the beginnings of frost form at the tips of his beard, a race of terrible and now familiar memories immediately pouring into his head. Without knowing it, Harry had shifted forward, bowing his head into Snape's space in an attempt to curl himself into a ball. The catatonic git moaned, his eyes dilating dangerously, convulsing slightly as his own memories assaulted him. Harry clutched Snape's arm, silently bearing his own suffering.

The Dementors passed on soon enough, giving Harry time to regain his breath and wipe away the annoyingly chilly frost.

"Bastards," he muttered again a few minutes later after he'd gotten himself together, rubbing his goosebump-filled arms absently. He glanced at his companion, worriedly realizing Snape was still convulsing slightly, trembling. It was weird for him to be here, with his hated future Potions Teacher, feeding the man and trying to keep him alive. It was also horribly strange to see this sarcastic, witty and cynical man break down _whimpering_. His face was not even close handsome but it was young, and that inspired compassion and a strange sort of loyalty inside of Harry that he would've never felt in any other context.

They were in this together, whether any of them liked it or not.

And for this reason Harry would not let Snape die.

"They're gone now," he said softly, awkwardly putting both hands on the other's arms to make him stop shivering, "It's…well, it's not okay. But they won't be here for another while. So…it'll be all right. You don't have to be scared any more."

Harry continued, still feeling stupid, but then again, being around Snape always made him feel that. Somehow, his voice soothed the older man, and he stopped trembling. Amazingly enough, Snape's eyes closed and he fell unconscious, almost as if he were asleep. Harry stared at the man a few more minutes, his own tiredness suddenly overcoming him. He curled up beside him, trying to convince himself that it was only for the warmth of body heat.

Only for the warmth.

°°°

Harry took care of Snape.

He fed him most of their single portion, and later fed him a whole bowl when they finally began getting two piles of the mush again for both of them, twice a day. He curled up with the catatonic man when he felt tired enough to fall asleep, sharing their collective body heat that wasn't enough for one person but it was better than nothing. For some strange reason, the aurors no longer came walking by as they had before.

In fact, they seemed to have all together deserted their posts.

Azkaban was rather quiet without the auror's loud bickering; the only sounds being keen moans or hysterical laughter emanating from a close-by cell every now and then. Not many people on their floor were sane enough for proper conversation anyway. Everyone was too depressed or mired in their past horrors to really exchange any words with anyone else.

Harry just hoped Snape didn't end up like the rest of the prisoners.

Apparently, it was the Dementors who brought the rations now, because Harry always felt cold and heard Snape's whimpering right before their food bowls suddenly appeared in front of their slim prison bars. He hadn't actually seen a Dementor since the fateful day of Voldemort's demise, though he was all too aware that they were there from the rush of painful memories and the unmistakable freezing cold that bit his skin all the way to his bones from time to time.

Going to the bathroom was a different matter all together, but Harry had gotten used to the constant stink of human urine and waste over the endless months. Harry had actually soiled himself more than once during his stay, and didn't fault the man when he realized Snape would unconsciously do that since he wasn't awake enough to do it by himself. It may have disgusting, but he'd learned never to complain. It could be worse.

In Azkaban, there was no true privacy. Personal hygiene was nonexistent.

Harry was nonetheless grateful that, despite the lack of roaming aurors, every passing week the cleaning charms would come once again, automatically.

Taking care of Snape was simple enough. Both of their bodies had quickly adjusted to the new feeding procedures and the lack of taste in the mush. The mix wasn't exactly healthy, but it kept them alive as long as they consumed it. There was always two buckets of water in the cell, and the water automatically re-filled every three days, which Harry was eternally grateful for. He knew how to make both pails last a long time, if there was ever a 'drought' in the system.

Snape would eat and drink at Harry's orders, swallowing when necessary. It was a bit eerie, but Harry didn't complain. Light was scarce around these parts, most of it provided by the very few flickering torches lined in the hall outside of their cells. Sunlight never came unless the tides were kind and their tiny window was hit at just the right angle. When these moments came, Harry would carefully drag the other man to the small sliver of light and let him bask in it for the few minutes that it remained a day.

Snape snapped out of his coma-like state around a week later.

°°°

Harry had been temporarily shocked when he saw the other's eyes open, once again filled with that glint of awareness he'd been lacking for the past few days. Snape was still somewhat drowsy, though, and Harry got his bearings back soon enough.

"Welcome back to the world of the living," he joked with a crooked, empty smile. "You've been dead for like a week now." He felt strangely disappointed that he could no longer be near the man without being snarled at, or share his warmth alongside his catatonic body when they drifted off into sleep. He killed those thoughts before they developed further, reminding himself that Snape didn't need his help anymore.

"Shit," Snape croaked, voice dry from his previous long silence, "And I was so looking forward to not having to see your face in the land of the dead."

"Ha-ha," Harry said sarcastically, yet he couldn't stop the small smile that came onto his dirty face. They were both weak from malnutrition, starvation and cold, but they were nonetheless alive. He glanced at Snape out of the corner of his eye, wondering. For all he knew, maybe the man had witnessed the last few days yet he simply hadn't responded. Or perhaps he truly _had_ been dead to the world, and did not recall anything that had transpired during that time.

Snape hadn't confirmed anything, however, and Harry didn't have the courage to question him about it.

At least he was awake again.

* * *

Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Sorry once again for taking so long to update Dx I've finished Chapter 10 and am onto Chapter 11, so I'll probably be able to speed up the updates soon. The majority of this fanfic won't take place in Azkaban, I assure you, but Harry WILL stay all seven years, and that will take some time to get through. Thanks for your patience though!

**Warnings:** Foul language and graphic violence :p

**

* * *

Chapter 5 - **_Annual Wishes_

With nothing else to do the long hours of silence they spent here, Harry had once again started his little tally mark calendar. After he'd been moved from the fourth floor down to the fifth, he'd no longer had access to his remarkably accurate chart of passing days, and had briefly been lost in the flow of time. Only recently he'd once again asked for the date and resumed his counting. He scratched another line on the wall of his corner, remembering to include today.

If his scribbling was correct, it was the ninth of January 1982.

"What is that?" Snape ventured to ask suddenly, startling Harry.

The other man rarely ever talked, much less attempt to start any conversation. Nonetheless, Harry was pleased. At least he could show off his intellectual abilities, as failing as they were these days—after all, Snape hadn't come up with it.

"Calendar," Harry stated proudly, "It's the ninth of January today."

"Oh," Snape said distastefully, not at all impressed, "How depressing."

Harry sniffed childishly for the effect, "Huh. You're just jealous that I thought it up and you didn't."

"No," sneered the older man, "I merely find it amazingly pathetic that you decided to keep count how long you've remained in this hell hole."

The green-eyed young man glared, "At least I'm not moping and doing nothing, like someone I know."

"You know nothing," Snape hissed.

Harry's eyes flared, all of his bottled up anger exploding, "Know nothing? _You_ know nothing, you fucking bastard. I've spent over one year and a half in this shit pit of Hell, reliving my worst memories every fucking day, and I've yet to give up. Despite everything, despite whatever shit has happened to me, I'm still alive. And I'll keep plaguing this fucking world, until I get out of this miserable hole. And what have you got to say about yourself, huh? Giving up in two months. Nice. What a good thing to tell little ol' Voldy when you're both down there, rotting away in the same manner you did when you were alive. You're just a fucking _coward_—"

"SHUT UP!" Snape roared suddenly, his eyes insane, more alive than ever after the long period of coma-ridden death, "DON'T CALL ME A COWARD!"

"Then make me shut up!" Harry screamed, his own green orbs flaming in fury, "Make me shut up, you fucking coward!"

Snape rushed forward frighteningly quickly in comparison to his feeble strength and skeletal body, and struck Harry hard in the stomach. He continued in the same fashion as he yelled out his words of fury, drowning himself in mindless anger.

"SHUT UP" _wham _"YOU" _wham _"FUCKING" _wham wham_ "BASTARD!"

Harry groaned, gasping for breath as it was knocked out of him, seeing stars beyond his vision. He was beginning to regret having provoked the man, and tried to curl up into a protective ball. At his face, at his stomach, at his chest…the blows landed everywhere. There was no escaping or fighting back this one—Snape overpowered his attempts easily.

"SHUT _UP_—"

It went on for another few endless seconds, but, as his body began to go numb, Harry realized he was strangely happy. This was a release for both of them, in a way. Months after months of Azkaban will drive a man insane, and this act of violence and receiving pain drove him back into his otherwise dead body, reminding Harry that he was still alive and could still feel, even if it was only hurt. It was a sick pleasure, a rough way to discharge their bottled up energy, but it worked.

Then there was a sickening crack and blinding white spots in his eyes, and Harry's nose began to spew blood.

Only then Snape calmed down, staring at the effects of his anger. In fact, it was a miracle no auror or Dementor had come near their cell to see what the loud ruckus was all about. Harry tried not to whimper, the euphoria that had come with the beating fading now. Snape's breathing was harsh, his nostrils flaring, eyes wild and dangerous. His fists were splattered with a bit of blood and there was a dull ache in his bony knuckles.

He could only imagine what pain his cellmate must be going through.

Tired, the greasy-haired man slumped back onto the wall, looking emotionlessly at his victim that was helplessly curled in the corner, face beginning to bruise and nose probably broken with all it's bleeding. Harry coughed as he tried to clear his air passage, choking on blood that ran down his throat, spitting out a wad of red saliva.

Time continued, and the only sounds the two of them heard were their own breaths and Harry's occasional coughing as well as the distant humming of the crazy man beyond their cell as he rocked himself back and forth obsessively, muttering inconsistencies.

Almost as if he were singing an eerie hymn dedicated to all the insane inmates in this place.

"That hurt," Harry whispered, his voice sort of clogged with his bleeding nose, "Bastard."

"You asked for it," Snape said, his voice dry with sarcasm but his tired posture betraying his exhaustion, "Literally."

Harry chuckled, wincing as it hurt his jaw. "That I did." He murmured, cautiously going to touch his nose before flinching at the ache. "I'm sorry," he said after a length, "I shouldn't have called you that."

Snape said nothing, tilting his head forward, his greasy locks covering his face. Perhaps it was his form of accepting the apology, or maybe he was stating one in return.

Another long moment of silence followed, and Harry closed his eyes. He could feel the world closing in on him, darkness along the edges of his red-tinted vision. He was drowsy, sleepy even, and knew that tomorrow his face would be puffy and swollen—but tomorrow was a long ways away. The stars dancing behind his eyelids were fading now, inky blackness once again welcoming him in it's frozen embrace…

"It's my birthday today," Snape spoke suddenly, his quiet voice breaking the silence, "January ninth."

Harry lifted his head slightly from his lying-down position on the floor, cocking one eye at the man, "Oh?"

"Yes," Snape muttered, as if regretting his decision to speak, "Twenty-one fucking years."

"Happy birthday then, Snape." Harry said quietly, absently wiping some blood off of his cheek at the same time, "As happy as you can be in here, that is." The green-eyed man mustered a lazy smile, his abused facial muscles bringing the beginnings of tears in his eyes at the pain of doing such an action. He gave up on trying to clean his face and let his head fall softly on the cold ground again, resisting the urge to shiver as goose bumps filled his exposed flesh.

Snape glanced at him, and, after a moment's hesitation, cautiously came closer. Harry didn't flinch or move, his eyes locked on the other's own, wondering what was up. The greasy-haired young man did not look hostile, and Harry somehow knew Snape would not attack him now, after he was clearly beaten and utterly defenseless on the ground.

He lightly pressed Harry's nose, confirming that it wasn't broken. The green-eyed man nonetheless jerked back at the pain, the tears that had previously gathered now falling slowly down his face. Snape stopped his head from whacking itself on the wall, and—astonishingly—gently held it in place as he pinched the bridge of his nose firmly. Incredibly, the blood flow stopped soon enough with Snape's quiet and careful ministrations. Harry made no comment throughout all of this, his eyes half-lidded and calm. Within he was a bit confused, but accepted the kindness nonetheless.

He supposed this was Snape's strange way of saying sorry for his rash actions.

With slow, deliberate movements, Snape dipped the other sleeve of his own tattered prison-issued rags in one of the water buckets, soaking it as he very carefully wiped the blood off Harry's face. There was still remains of some dried blood, but it would flake off later. After this was done, the man inched backwards, but remained at a close distance in case Harry needed his assistance again.

The green-eyed youth blinked once in gratitude, and Snape blinked back.

A silent communication, Harry thought with a small mental smile.

He never would've guessed in a million years that he'd be stuck in the past with his greasy git of a professor as a cellmate in Azkaban. Let alone be able to carry out some form of conversation, as violent as they usually ended. Harry didn't want to think of the future though, and decided he'd best think of the present, the time he was living in right now. They were two men in Hell, he reminded himself, and they had no one but each other here.

For all he knew, they'd be stuck here for a long while.

"You know," Snape surprised Harry by speaking again some time later, his voice betraying no emotion, "You're the first person to say that to me in a long time."

"Huh," Harry's eyes were closed once more, "Really?"

"Yes."

"Hm," he hummed, "What do you wish for?"

Snape glanced at him, his black eyes confused, "What?"

"Mm-hmm," Harry murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion and drowsiness, "When it's your birthday, I've been told you supposedly have to make a wish. Some candle crap too, but I suppose we can skip that in this case."

The other man blinked owlishly, scowling, but Harry didn't see any of that, as his eyes were closed. "I…" Snape frowned, suspicious perhaps, "I don't have any wish."

"Yeah right," the green eyed young man of seventeen said, shifting slightly to get into a better position to rest and maybe sleep, "Everyone has a wish."

Snape scoffed, "That's not true."

"Is too," Harry insisted half-heartedly, and finished moving, his back to the wall as he curled into his usual sleeping position.

"What would you wish for, then?" Snape shot back, but Harry was already asleep, his breathing as steady as it could be with a recently almost-broken nose. Falling asleep in the middle of a conversation…

_Like an old man_, Snape thought. _Or a very young child_.

The greasy-haired man was silent for a few minutes before saying very quietly into the empty air, "I suppose I wish I was back home." He smirked ruefully, for he was incapable of smiling now, "Home…at Hogwarts."

Silence was his only reply, and the man closed his eyes, chucking darkly to himself for daring to voicing his desire out loud. As if that would ever happen. He shouldn't even hope for it now; he was abandoned. He'd been left to rot and die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

_Headmaster Dumbledore_, he thought somewhat sadly. The old man had forgotten him here, even after giving his word that his spy would go free. He felt a sort of deep resentment for that, but most of all he hated himself for holding on so desperately to such a flimsy promise, trying hard to believe in Albus Dumbledore's cheerful sincerity.

A young man's foolishness, he berated himself.

He gazed once more at the other sleeping near him, looking past the haggard face and dirty beard. Below that drowsy frown was a child, he realized, a mere boy. The other…he realized he didn't know the young man's name, and if he did, he could not remember.

What sort of world are we living in, Snape thought as he looked at the other, to have people who throw children in prison, regardless of their crime?

A shitty one, he mused. He bowed his head. _We are living in a very fucked up world_.

But then again, he already knew that.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter isn't mine D: JK doesn't share with rabid fangirls, I'm afraid. Finished chapter 11 so expect regular updates for this entire month! Reviews are lovely, by the way :D

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**Chapter 6 - **_Contemplating Sentences_

"What's your name?"

Harry looked up from where he was scratching another tally mark on his rapidly growing calendar-thing, blinking in momentary shock. "What?"

"I said," Snape grunted, looking awkward and frustrated at having to repeat his question, "What's your name?"

"Oh?" The green-eyed man smirked. "When did you become so interested?" The other rarely ever started anything other than a fight, and Harry wanted to gloat this small triumph as long as he could without pissing the older man too much.

Snape crossed his arms as his expression darkened. He did not like being mocked, nor embarrassed in any manner, Harry had learned quickly enough. The man was prone to violence when he felt threatened, he knew now too, having more than enough experience with the short-tempered Snape these past five months together.

"Forget I asked," Snape hissed, indignant.

"Harry," the green-eyed man shrugged a few seconds later, seeing no reason in withholding his name, "My name's Harry."

Snape said nothing, quietly fuming in his own corner.

It was funny, in a way. When they fought—as it was only natural, for they were two grown men 'living' in a ridiculously enclosed space with Dementors as their only other companions—one would either end up on the ground defeated, or they would separate and go sulk in their respective corners. It was a silent agreement that they would help each other after battling their frustrations, and both of them followed the unspoken rule without fail.

Neither of them wanted to be responsible for killing the other and being left alone with a rotting corpse, after all.

"Hey, what's yours, anyway?"

Snape glared at him, "You know my name."

"Snape's just your last name," Harry expanded, "What's your first?"

But the man was closed off now. "None of your business."

"Don't be like that," the young man insisted, "Come on. Tell me."

"Shut up." Snape growled, eyes glowing a hole in the wall.

Harry sighed, giving up. It was useless to try in these occasions. If he persisted, he might end up with another puffed up face for the rest of the week. It wasn't nice trying to heal in these hellish conditions, and Harry preferred saving his energy for staying alive rather than spending it on fixing his face. He still found it incredibly strange that he'd yet to spy on a Dementor, yet still felt the drain when they were close by.

The aurors were back, but in lesser numbers. They rarely came down here anymore, preferring to stay on the somewhat better levels up above. Dementors ruled these underground floors, though even then they were considerably scarce. Either Harry was growing immune, or they weren't around as much as before. He was willing to bet it was the latter—maybe the Dementors had suffered a great loss, and, due to not being able to reproduce more of themselves, had scattered across Azkaban in an attempt to save their numbers.

Harry didn't care—he was simply glad that the soul-sucking monsters weren't near him.

"Severus," came Snape's gruff voice out of the blue, breaking Harry's train of thought.

"What?"

"That's my name," he stated, refusing to repeat it.

Harry grinned. Success! "That's a cool name! Can I call you that, now?"

"No."

"Please?"

"_No_."

"Aw," Harry gave a ridiculous pout, "Spoilsport."

Snape sneered at him, but Harry knew the man was secretly amused, if only a little. He'd also learnt how to read his eyes at times, though usually they were either expressionless or meticulously protected by what Harry believed was his impenetrable Occlumency walls. He supposed Occlumency was a solid defense against Dementors, though he doubted the man could muster the strength to hold those walls when under attack. Snape still shivered when they were near, and his pale face paled even further, little sounds sometimes escaping his lips when it became too much.

As for Harry's constant displays of childishness, he attributed to the fact that he was insane.

Yes, downright crazy.

Harry had naturally denied his lack of sanity for many months until he'd finally accepted his madness and embraced it. He knew how to reason and he knew how to think, but he'd adapted and twisted to be able to survive in such horrible conditions, and thus he would be considered totally out of his mind to anyone else who'd been living 'normally' for all their life without the constant Dementor companionship. Snape, too, was a bit mad, Harry supposed, though he was better at hiding it.

Or maybe that was just Harry's own weird way of assuming things, because he didn't want to be alone in his lunacy.

"What was your crime?"

"_What_?" Harry blinked, shocked twice in one day—another question? Man, Snape was on a role today!

"Why are you in Azkaban, you deaf dunderhead." Snape repeated with an incredibly human gesture to accompany it—_he rolled his eyes_! Harry was sure this was the sign that the apocalypse was coming.

Still, however silly he may be within the confines of his mind, that question had struck him. Should he reveal the reason for his seven-year sentence? Why did Snape want to know, anyway? If he told Snape he'd murdered two people in cold blood, would the man hate him? What would happen if he spoke the truth? Of his situation, stuck in the past?

All the questions were burning his brain. He went for the easy way out.

"Why are you?" Harry shot back lamely.

Snape eyed him for a moment, and then shrugged, as if mentally deciding something. "I was a Death Eater," he stated nonchalantly, "That's basically a direct ticket into Azkaban, in the Ministry's eyes."

Harry hadn't exactly expected the future professor to say it so indifferently, so casually, or to reveal it at all. Sure, it was obvious he was a Death Eater with his refusal to refer to Voldemort as anything but the Dark Lord…but to say it so casually? Did he not mind if Harry knew? Did Snape not care that his so-called 'Dark Lord' had murdered thousands, and in the future would continue to do so? Perhaps Snape did not regret his Death Eater days. Or maybe he wasn't ashamed of it, but rather proud of once wearing a mask under a black hood, the imprint of a snake hissing out of a human skull a delight to his eyes...

That was a worrying thought.

But the words he used were curious. "Was?"

The man's eyes flickered with something but it was snuffed out quickly enough, "The Dark Lord is no longer around, so I cannot call myself his servant any longer."

Harry did not know if Snape was happy to be a Death Eater. He still did not know much about the man, despite their long months in the same elbow room. However, this revelation did not change the man he was inside. Snape would forever be Snape, the sarcastic, cold and cruel bitter man he was today and would remain in the future, if a bit more jagged and old. And Harry was fine with that—he was used to that, and was, dare he say it, even fond of it.

"Bugger for you," he hummed, "Though I can't say I hold much love for Voldy, myself."

He felt somewhat smug at the small hiss that escaped Snape's lips and the inevitable shudder that followed, but stopped his taunting immediately, wanting to avoid the daylights being punched out of him. Snape, loyal or not, wasn't amused by his nicknames to the greatest Dark Lord of the century.

"Well," Harry ventured, "I killed someone. Two people, in fact." He shrugged, seemingly indifferent to his crime as well; "I tortured them before killing them. I found out later I'd killed the wrong person and slaughtered another accidentally. Got caught, got a trial, found guilty, then sent here for seven years."

Snape looked at him curiously, "Only seven?"

Harry sputtered. "What do you mean, _only seven_?" he snarled, "That's a shit load of time, you know!"

The man raised an eyebrow, "Well, I've been sentenced for life, and I wasn't even given the luxury of a trial." He shrugged again, "Not that it would be any different, however."

"Life sentence without a trial?" Harry said dumbly, trying to wrap around the concept of spending his entire life in this hellish prison without even a chance to plead your innocence, even if you _were_ guilty. "Jeez, that sucks," he finished lamely.

"Yes, it does," Snape said, suddenly very bitter.

The green-eyed man cast his eyes downwards. "So you're never coming out?" he asked hesitantly.

"No," Snape said shortly.

"Why don't you escape or something?" Harry suggested slowly, thinking of Sirius.

"I'm already bored of that thought," the older man's eyes were dead once again, "Besides, it's impossible."

"Nothings impossible," Harry insisted, his thoughts now traveling to his own bizarre travel through time. "Trust me." His eyes hardened, "Besides, I won't let you rot in here."

Snape looked up, momentarily caught off guard, "What?"

"I refuse to let you die here," Harry's vehement words came out of his mouth before he could stop them, before he realized what he was admitting to, "I'll get you out, somehow, even if it kills me."

The man's black eyes were wide for a moment in genuine surprise, before they narrowed in suspicion, "If you're trying to get me to do something for you, then I'd prefer it if you leave me here." He cast his dark gaze downwards, "I have nothing to give to this world, anyway."

"Yes you do," Harry continued resolutely, confused at his own words but nonetheless determined to make them come true, "Your life wasted away in this hell…it's not right. You don't deserve that, no matter what fucked up things you did, or what fucked up things you'll do in the future. I won't let you die here, like a common criminal."

_You're so more than that_, he thought fiercely. _Worth so much more than you know_.

Snape was a bastard. He was and would remain in the future. Harry would hate him, in that not-so-distant future. He would despise him, curse him, and wish him dead twice over. But nonetheless, the Harry of now, the Harry that had suffered Azkaban for a little less than five months with this greasy git, would not allow it.

He simply wouldn't.

He'd find a way to bust Snape out, even if it would alter the timeline or whatever shit he would cause.

"Big words for a little man," Snape whispered darkly, "I appreciate the sentiment, but don't promise things you can't do. I've had enough of those empty lies."

"It's not a lie!" Harry exclaimed.

"Look, _Harry_," the dark-haired man spat, murder in his eyes, "I've accepted my fate. Don't smear your freedom in my face any more than you have to." With that last sentence, Snape turned his face and spoke no further.

It was one of the rare times Snape had ever admitted to having envy, or at least insinuated it. But of course he was jealous, furious—it was logical, after all. Harry would be free to go in his nameless glory five and a half years from now, and Snape only had to look forward to dead walls and bad memories for the rest of his life. It was comprehendible he didn't want to think of it any more than was necessary.

"I'm not smearing it in your face," Harry insisted weakly, but nothing came from the other end. He hung his head, feeling very stupid at bursting out his rant. Yet, he convinced himself, even if Snape would not believe him, Harry would make his words true. "I'll get you out," he muttered to himself, "Just you wait, you unbelieving bastard."

The day he finally left this hellhole, he would find a way to liberate Severus Snape.

He and Snape were a strange sort of acquaintances, being cellmates and all. If he dared think it, perhaps they were friends. It wasn't in Harry's nature to abandon his friends. Besides, the future written in his mind declared Snape would be alive and well by the time he stepped foot in Hogwarts, and he was sure that, no matter what he did or didn't do, Snape would find himself teaching at Hogwarts by then.

The usual silence fell upon them, and their window grew dark. The only light was flickering a few cells down—the torch's flare barely reaching their residence. Harry looked up and suddenly found himself staring directly into Snape's dark, sunken eyes. The dimness of their small chamber illuminated the git's face eerily, his sunken cheeks jutting out quite obviously, reminding Harry of a skull.

He blinked, confused. Did he have something on his face? "What?" Harry asked quietly, startling Snape. The man turned around quickly, breaking the eye contact, as if embarrassed.

"Go to sleep, idiot," Snape snarled, but his voice wasn't really angry.

Harry glanced at him, the skinny, bearded, hook-nosed git curled in the opposite corner, and smiled. This was _his_ Snape. The Snape he knew, the Snape he would not let die. He was rarely possessive of anything, but this was completely opposite. In no way did he feel sexually attracted to the other man—this was not about love. It was about one man's loyalty to another, a fierce companionship born out of necessity and an animalistic need for survival.

"Yes, mother," he replied back sarcastically, but he was smiling inside.

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	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes:** Okay, I've tried to upload this chapter like a gazillion times for the past few weeks, but every time I tried the document wouldn't load. It finally started working yesterday (I uploaded a new fic) so here's the new chapter. I apologize for it's shortness and the length of time it took me to get it up D: Hope you guys forgive me!

More Snape and Harry interaction. Snape's time at Azkaban is coming to a close now, however, so the monotonous setting of the prison will finally change :) Enjoy!

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**Chapter 7 - **_Imaginative Cuisine_

"Cheers Snape!" Harry exclaimed one morning, if the light filtered through their little window was anything to go by. "You are now of the official age to drink, are you not?"

Snape glanced at his cellmate with mild amusement, "What?"

"Twenty-one is the legal age, right? So…cheers!" the young man dragged over a bucket of water and poured some into their empty food bowl, careful not to spill any. "Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!" he grinned, handing it over.

"Harry," Snape deadpanned, "I'm not in the mood for your insane jokes."

"'M not insane," Harry pouted slightly, "Least, not as much as you. 'Sides, it's about time we celebrated your days-gone birthday, eh? Some good wine should do, don't you think?"

"It's water, Jesus," the hook-nosed man stated with blunt sarcasm, "And no amount of your generous input will change it into anything remotely edible. Although, I'm sure that if you keep yapping it'll eventually evaporate away and hopefully then you'll leave me alone."

"Hey," the other began hotly, but then froze in his spot and jerked slightly, the bowl dropping from his fingers and the water spilling on the floor. Snape himself paled and his fingers curled, head bowing in an effort not to make a sound.

_Dementors_, they both knew instantly.

Unconsciously, they both inched closer and huddled together, trying to stop their mind from snapping. A few eternal seconds later and the cold drifted away again, the horrible creatures having moved on to livelier prey. Snape and Harry's breaths were heavy, their eyes meeting in silent relief.

"Fuck," Harry muttered bitterly, teeth chattering, "I hate it when they sneak up on us like that."

"They do that," Snape noted dully, having just relieved some bad childhood memories.

Harry choked a laugh and gently massaged his frozen knuckles, urging them back into mobility. "Well," he nodded at their recently re-filled food bowl, striving to sound positive, "At least they brought sacrifices."

"I suppose," Snape said neutrally, trying to stop his body's unconscious shaking. He could still hear his father's voice screaming at his mother inside of his head, meaning his Occlumency wall had failed to protect his mind again. He would have to keep practicing, no matter how futile his actions would be—Azkaban or not, he rather liked his sanity, thank you very much.

"It tastes like chocolate," Harry remarked cheerfully after spooning a bit of their shared meal into his mouth with his fingers, "Have you ever eaten chocolate before?"

Snape eyed his companion with a raised eyebrow, sighing heavily. "This isn't working, Harry."

Harry frowned, absently licking his fingers, "Aw, come on, Snape. Don't give up so easily. If you think hard enough, it really does taste like it, I swear. You just have to concentrate."

The greasy-haired young man stared at the small bowl with doubt in his eyes, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Eugh," he muttered, "It wouldn't work even if I was under the effects of a powerful Deluding charm. And if I keep thinking of how this mush tastes, I'm going to throw up. You can have it."

"What?" the green-eyed man blinked, and continued on seriously, "You sure? They may be upping the food dosages again, but that doesn't mean you should start skipping."

"I'll be fine," he assured his cellmate dryly, "And if I collapse, I have you to keep me alive."

"You can count on me," Harry said in between hasty swallows, and then frowned thoughtfully, "Just don't make a habit out of it, okay?"

Snape nodded shortly, allowing his gaze to wander. Their joint cell was as small as ever, the stones as cold as they'd always been. Vaguely he could hear the sounds of a scuffle a few cells down, indecipherable howls being exchanged as some other inmates tore themselves apart to keep alive. These days he and Harry simply shared their rations rather than fight, deciding that mutualism was the more humane route.

Most jails—muggle or otherwise—usually served different meals, no matter how bland. Inmates were allowed to exercise outside in the sunlight, stretch their legs and put their hands to good use. They would treat prisoners with some measure of respect, as all humans have rights, no matter how low they might be. Azkaban, however, was an entirely different sort of place. If one was blunt, it could be said that Azkaban was a death prison, designed to exterminate instead of keep alive. No one really cared of what happened within its walls, for they were all destined to die anyway.

For those who had a shorter sentence, like Harry; they simply had to ride along with it. If they didn't survive, no one took the blame. They were either cremated or buried beside Azkaban walls and forgotten. No escape from here, not even in death.

"I'm going to walk for a bit," Snape declared, and promptly heaved himself back onto his feet. He maintained balance by leaning against the cold wall with one hand, slowly pacing the perimeter of their cell before pausing to catch his breath. If one didn't exercise like such at least every other day, their muscles would slowly deteriorate to nothing. And without mobility, one could not feed or take care of oneself—that meant death.

"Need help?" Harry chirped from his corner, finally having finished licking his fingers. He stretched and popped a few muscles before shakily getting to his feet as well.

Snape grunted, closing his eyes for a second. "No," he spoke eventually, "That's all right. I'm fine."

"It's harsh, hm?" Harry asked as he walked over to Snape just as slowly. "Geez, I feel like an old man. I'm tired all ready."

"…" Snape said nothing.

"I used to play Quidditch, you know," Harry continued on conversationally, knowing better than to wait for his companion to reply. "Seeker. Merlin, I miss flying so much. Did you ever play Quidditch?"

"Quiddich is an idiotic sport for equally idiotic morons," Snape said harshly, "I never found any interest in wasting your time watching dunderheads chasing after floating balls for sheer amusement."

The young man looked up sharply, a retort on angered lips before letting it die. He sighed and hung his head, smiling softly, "Yeah. I guess you're right. It is a pretty stupid thing to waste your time on, I guess. Still," he whispered longingly, "I do miss flying."

Snape glanced at his companion, before sighing inaudibly, as if deciding on something. "I…" he paused, uncharacteristically hesitant. "I was never good at flying. I was always picked on…for that…" he trailed off, narrowing his eyes and daring Harry to comment on it.

Instead, Harry nodded empathetically. "I know that feeling. I used to be taunted for my total lack of skills in other departments, myself." He looked up and smiled emptily, "It all seems really stupid now, though, doesn't it? Here, I mean. Azkaban. Whatever."

"I suppose," the hook-nosed man said neutrally, fighting back his usual sarcasm. They stood in their respective places in silence for a while, before Snape ventured to speak again. "How old are you, anyway? Just out of school?"

"Not even then," Harry chuckled and then quieted down, wiping his suspiciously wet eyes. "Never did finish," he half-choked out, striving not to remember his days at Hogwarts. They were gone—and they weren't coming back. This wasn't some feverish nightmare. This was reality, and he had to deal with it. Ron, Hermione…everyone was gone from him now, and the time to mourn his severance from society was long past.

"You do sound young," Snape continued, beginning to pace around the room to do something with his feet, "Tell me."

"Seventeen, last time I checked," Harry rubbed his eyes, "Summer." _A year from the day I was thrown in here_, he remembered bitterly. "Why do you want to know?"

The man shrugged, "…you remind me of someone."

"Oh?"

Snape slowly allowed himself to sit down again, motioning jerkily for Harry to join him, refusing to meet the other's gaze. Once Harry had gotten over his shock and ambled over, he spoke to the floor, bony hands clasped together. "Life…" he began bitterly, "It's always unfair. No matter what you do to change it, nothing ever comes right. And I can never go back, like you can never go back, either. We're stuck in Hell's limbo, waiting to die."

The young man rested his head cautiously against the wall, careful not to jostle anything. He played with a loose string on the cuff of his shirt, twisting it around a finger tightly, watching the joint turn an angry red. "I don't want to die," Harry murmured softly, "I definitely don't want to die here." His suffocating finger began to twitch sporadically, turning purple, almost as if it were desperately seeking air.

"Stop," Snape said finally, jerking Harry's finger away from the string with his own hand. He glared at the coloured digit as if it were the reason for all his problems, harshly rubbing it with his two palms in order to let the blood flow. "If you do that too much, you'll permanently lose motor function. You won't be able to hold a wand properly then."

Harry shrugged, but nonetheless didn't move his hand from Snape's ministrations. "It doesn't matter," he muttered eventually, "By the time I get out of here, I won't be able to move anything."

Snape glared at Harry furiously, squeezing harder than was necessary, earning a wince. "At least you're getting out," he snarled, beginning to stand up so he could stalk over to his own corner.

"No, wait, I'm sorry," said Harry quickly, stopping the other from leaving by grasping at his torn rags. "Please…I won't talk anymore, just…don't go."

Snape would've jerked himself free, but the defeated look on his cellmate's face made him pause. He wavered on simply storming off to simply sitting back down in order to avoid any possible violence later on. Reluctantly settling on the latter, he allowed himself to be pulled back and lowered himself down to the ground once more.

"I'm sorry," Harry repeated softly, bowing his head. He hadn't always been so submissive, hadn't always needed to depend on another—much less greasy git Snape. But if all he had for company in this hellhole refused to speak to him, he would go mad. He needed someone to talk to once in a while, someone he knew would answer no matter what. And Snape, when angered, tended to fall as silent as the grave, hate and hostility in his eyes, burning Harry's will to silence.

"Stop sniveling," Snape growled, "You sound pathetic. Now pass me that bowl before I have to step over you to get it."

Harry blinked at him and nodded, stretching his hand over to grasp the bowl and handing it over. Snape took it and promptly ignored the other, feeding himself the remains. Harry eyed him for a moment before looking away, closing his eyes tiredly.

"Tastes like shit," Snape commented nonchalantly, "Chocolate-flavoured shit, if you squint."

Harry's laughter echoed down the corridor for a long time.

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Thanks for reading! 


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** As a further apology for my three-week lateness, I decided to post the next chapter alongside seven; this one's longer, 3,300 words to be exact :) This Saturday or Sunday I'll update chapter 9, I promise.

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**Chapter 8 - **_Holly Wizardry_

Harry was rhythmically thumping his head against the wall to the beat of Snape's fingers tapping on the floor, ultimately achieving nothing than worsening his all ready pounding headache. If one did not die in Azkaban because of the food shortages, lack of hygiene, or Dementors sucking out your soul, you would most certainly perish from the utter boredom.

In short, there was nothing to do.

_Nothing_!

"I'm bored," Harry muttered hoarsely from his corner, his throat parched from a recent accidental drought in the system. He could go on about his suspicions of the credibility of this 'accident', but he knew well enough that Snape was not interested in subjects he already had the answers to. This didn't stop him from speaking out his opinions, of course, but it rarely merited a response, and that was what Harry was seeking out of his usually silent companion.

"So am I," Snape murmured back a few moments later, pausing in his tapings, "And stop that, you're giving _me_ a headache just looking at you."

"Sorry," Harry said unremorsefully, whacking his head one last time for good measure before wincing, "Ow, fuck."

"Serves your right," Snape smirked lazily, sighing. "But by Merlin, I too must admit defeat. This is pathetic…I could be doing some productive research right now, instead of rotting away in this cell."

"Research?" Harry voiced doubtfully, "You're stuck here for the rest of your life and all you can think about is _research_?"

Snape glared at the other frigidly, but made no hostile move. They'd long ago stopped being bothered by each other's insensitivities, having lived with each other for far too long now. "I happened to be in the middle of a breakthrough before I was…" he paused, sneering, "Locked away."

"Tell me about it," Harry proposed, "It'll keep our minds off the cold."

Snape blinked, and considered the offer for a moment. "All right," he accepted warily, "Hopefully this won't bore you too much. It's mostly Potion babble…I've been told I tend to ramble."

"Oh believe me, anything is better than silence," Harry smiled, "And besides, I'm interested. You've never spoken about your Potions work before."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Snape smirked, but his tone was considerably lighter and as close to cheerful as it could get.

Harry marveled at the change—his cellmate's love for Potions seemed to soften him. That should've been obvious from the start, but the green-eyed wizard had never ventured into those waters as he was quite inept at it. He filed away the information for later; if making Snape talk freely involved some general knowledge of Potions, he would do his best to accommodate this to their regular conversations.

"Where to start…" the man mused aloud, eyes half-closed in memory.

"At the beginning," Harry suggested with a small smile.

"The beginning? Well, ever since my mother…" Snape paused for a second, and rephrased his words, "Naturally, as I child I could not do magic. My mother, who was a witch, wanted to encourage me to love the art even if I couldn't perform it, so she showed me how to make Potions instead, showing me the subtle magic even those simple brews contained. Ever since then, I have always enjoyed the practice, though I never intended to become a Master until much later, in Hogwarts. It was there when I decided to make a career out of it, and made up my mind to begin a research for my Potions Master thesis early.

"I was actually quite interested in Magical Creatures and their usefulness in Potions back in the day, and commissioned myself to create a concoction worthy of my time from my knowledge gathered." Snape took a breath, his voice confident but his eyes betraying his nervousness as he constantly glanced at Harry to see if he still held the other's attention. The Potions Master continued on his explanation, lost in nostalgia, "I began with Dementors—the bottled Patroni that you see Aurors use from time to time here was developed by a very brilliant man, and I ventured to perfect his method. It eventually proved to be quite a task and I put it on hold…"

Here he paused, almost shyly, though his lip was curled in its usual defensive sneer.

"Go on," Harry urged eagerly, eyes wide.

"The Headmaster…" Snape grit his teeth and plowed on, "He asked me to make a potion for…a werewolf friend of his. I have never held love for their kind, and never sought to brighten their otherwise miserable lives…but this was a request I couldn't deny."

_Wolfsbane Potion_! Harry's thoughts blared suddenly, and the young man from the future began to realize just how incredibly brilliant Snape was. _Was he the one who created it? Or…will he create it in the future? _Awed, he leaned forward, staring at his companion with respect.

Slightly disturbed but nonetheless urged by Harry's response, Snape elaborated further. "I gathered up a test subject and began my project, attempting all the non-lethal ideas formulating in my head. The Headmaster implored that no harm come to the werewolf, so I could not do my research as profoundly as I aspired for obvious reasons. Discouraged, I thought of giving up…but the Dark Lord—" here Snape stopped abruptly, staring at Harry.

"I won't judge you," Harry said wisely, meaning every word. All the judging in the world had already occurred—now he only sought the truth behind the man's mask. Snape had done terrible things; that much was obvious. But he had been nothing if not honest of the extent of his endeavors. Harry would not hold it against him, like the rest of the world. There was nothing more to hold onto, anyway.

And Snape, knowing this without need for confirmation, continued.

"The Dark Lord eventually caught whiff of my experiments, and requested I do the same Potion for him, with a very different purpose in mind. He was not…aware that the results were originally intended for the Headmaster, and I did not seek to enlighten him nor Dumbledore of their unknowing collaboration.

"However, it all worked out nicely for me in the end, as my Master provided me with the tools necessary to continue my research without the snares of morals." He frowned at himself, dropping his head slightly, but his dark eyes were alight with a fire Harry had never seen before, "I am not proud of what I did, but I will admit I gathered sufficient data to produce something no other wizard has procured before. _A Potion to keep a werewolf human_. Before my notes, there was nothing to read about the subject—all there lay written in textbooks were mostly Potions that served to kill a werewolf, not to make him better, or human, as the ultimate goal was. But…"

"But…?"

Snape shrugged, "I was thrown in here after the…eradication of the Dark Lord. My notes were burned down alongside my Lord's Headquarters, though I do wonder of the few I left at Hogwarts. I never finished the Potion, though my ambitions have not faded. I still wonder if I could've made the antidote…" his voice was cold once more, "Alas, I can do nothing about it now."

"A cure…" Harry mused, "That would've…"

"Been extraordinary," Snape said, as if it were the most casual thing on Earth, "A breakthrough, as I told you. But no matter."

"No matter?" Harry choked, "Snape, this is incredible! Even me, someone who's the most dense wizard ever when it comes to Potions, knows how astonishing your research is. You could've…I dunno, made millions or something! Loads of werewolves would trip head-over-heels for a cure!"

"Your eloquence astounds me," Snape said dryly, though he was clearly pleased by the praise.

"Seriously!" Harry insisted excitedly, "Thinking on it…can't you continue your research here? I mean, geez, you wrote it all down, right? So you all ready know how to do it!"

"Harry," Snape began quietly, as if speaking to a very young child, "May I remind you that that is what notes are for? I may have an excellent memory, but even I cannot remember word-for-word what I wrote down so long ago—especially not with our cheerful soul-sucking pests floating around us like leeches."

"Can't you…oh, I don't know! Use a memory charm or something?" Harry waggled his eyebrows suggestively, as if stating the obvious.

Snape raised an eyebrow and sneered, "Perhaps you hit yourself harder than I thought. Harry…you may be an extraordinary wizard beyond those hollow walls called _your head_, but I must assure you—however reluctantly—that I am incapable of performing such complex pieces magic without at least some magical aid. Namely a wand. Doesn't that ring a bell?"

"But what about wandless magic?" Harry maintained his firm resolve, "I mean, you're really talented, right? Surely you can—"

"No!" Snape snarled harshly, "No, I fucking can't, all right?"

"Well then," Harry blinked owlishly at the outburst, "I'll just have to get you a—"

"Shut up in there!" And auror roared from just outside their cell, effectively silencing them both. "What the hell are you two rambling about?"

_Right on time_, Harry thought with a sudden smile.

"Just about how Merlin-damned snot pissed ugly you are!" Harry yelled impulsively, shooting the alarmed Snape a grin. "Dontcha think so, Sev?" Snape merely glared all-hell at Harry, not wanting to be part of his companion's spontaneous moment of utter insanity.

"What did you say?!" the furious young auror screamed, stomping over just a few inches from their cell door, well within reaching-range.

_Your mistake, idiot_, Harry thought calculatingly.

"The part where I said you're Merlin-damned snot pissed ugly?" he strode to the front of their little room, smirking cheerfully at the speechless man beyond their cell, "Or the part where I just laugh in your face?"

"_Why you—_!" the auror began angrily, raising his wand threateningly a few centimeter's from Harry's nose.

Then, faster than what anyone would've expected from a starved, dehydrated Azkaban prisoner, Harry slipped his bony wrists through the space between the bars and wrapped one hand around the auror's neck, squeezing as hard as he could. With the other, he ripped the wand from the auror's startled grasp, delivering a sequential groin-kick that knocked the poor man to his knees.

"Good night, kiddo," Harry whispered savagely, slamming his fist down on the dazed man's head, successfully knocking the young man unconscious.

"_What the hell are you doing_?" Snape hissed from his corner, eyes wide, "You just--!"

"Kicked a guard and stole his wand, I know. Now shush up! The damn moron made a lot of noise, so I have to make sure no one else is coming around!"

"You're a fucking idiot!" Snape continued ranting in a whisper, "When he wakes up--!"

"He isn't going to wake up," Harry assured Snape grimly, his eyes holding no regret, "Now start thinking happy thoughts. The Dementors can take care of him."

Snape stared at his cellmate for a few eternal seconds of silence, shocked at the other's raw display of frosty indifference.

"Why did you do that?" Snape ventured slowly, nodding to the fallen auror, "What for?"

"Got you a wand, didn't I?" Harry smiled, waving the offending stick victoriously, "Now you can perform that memory charm!"

"You…" Snape stared in disbelief, "You are indirectly killing an auror…to get me a wand…to remember a Potion?"

"Yup," Harry nodded, and glanced down at the prize, "Its holly, like my old wand. I think I was told they're one of the nicer woods, so it won't be too much of a hassle, I hope. Here." He tossed the stick, which Snape caught out of reflex.

"You're fucking insane," Snape whispered, but his eyes were wide with appreciation. He hadn't done magic in many months for obvious reasons, and one could liken this abstinence to trying to forcefully stop a life-long addiction. Having the tools to once again produce magic was heavenly, and the possibilities that lay before him even more so.

"Indeed I am," Harry said smugly. "Now cast the charm and start thinking happy thoughts, all right? If someone comes down here, then we really are in trouble."

The mere presence of their claimed wand seemed to attract Dementors, mostly because of their joint euphoria at the possibilities said object brought. They both scurried back into the darkness of their cell as two eager Dementors flocked about the fallen auror, bringing with them the cold that was associated with their kind. However, luckily for the two prisoners, the little pack of soul-sucking monsters were more concentrated on their victim and thus their powers didn't cause the usual radical effects of knocking them unconscious. Harry and Snape were far enough so they could actually continue their hushed conversation and not have to worry about being targeted to the soul-rape.

This, however, did not mean that the Dementors weren't close enough to cause dread and doubt.

"Oh Merlin," Harry whispered frantically, suddenly worried, "Do you think the other aurors will realize what I did to him? If we get caught…"

"You idiot," Snape hissed, nostrils flaring, "I told you!"

"Too late now," Harry mumbled grimly, looking at the soon-to-be-dead auror in an almost detached way, ignoring the shuddering moans the unconscious man was making as his soul was consumed by the Dementors.

"Fuck," Snape continued ranting quietly, unable to look away from the scene either, "We're done for, you moron! They'll know he didn't defend himself and they'll suspect his missing wand and _he's fucking dying in front of our cell_—"

"Calm down," Harry snarled, snatching the wand, "Well, come on, help me! Do you know the spell to drive the Dementors away?"

"_What_?" Snape looked at him, "Why--?"

"Do you know—"

"Of course I do," Snape snapped shortly, placing his hand on the wand as well, "But what the hell do you think we'll accomplish?" He nodded over to the gruesome scene where two more Dementors had joined in the feeding. The auror was already beyond pale and had stopped twitching—for all they knew, the man was already dead and the monsters were just enjoying the after taste of their meal.

"When they find his body, they'll probably check with _Priori Incatatem_ what were the last spells he did, right? It has to seem as if he defended himself," Harry explained quickly, his mind working on overdrive, "We have to stage it as if it seems he put up a fight or they'll never believe he succumbed so easily, and we'll be the first suspects. Alone we won't be able to manage a spell, but maybe a joint casting will be more effective. If we drive them away for a bit, we can use the bottled _Patroni_ and that'll be enough proof that the guy tried everything."

Snape stared at him as if he'd grown an extra head, but quickly shook his head and nodded briskly, eyes alight with contained excitement and a lust for death that he hadn't experienced in a long time. "On three, I assume."

"On three." Harry agreed tightly, ignoring the stifled feeling he felt when holding this wand. It clearly did not like him.

"One…" Snape began slowly. "Two…"

"_Now_!" Harry interrupted the count, breathing harshly.

"_Expecto Patronum_!" they hissed in unison.

Instead of the expected wisp of silver and explosion of a designated animal, the wand backfired jerkily, bringing with it a blinding flash of light that temporarily blinded both wizards.

"_Fuck_!" Harry hissed, rubbing his eyes frantically, "Oh shit, did it work?"

Snape had been smart enough to shut his eyes the moment of the explosion, so his vision came back quicker than his companion. "Their gone," he remarked, and then glanced down at the shattered wand in their hands, hissing when he realized that parts of the wand had been buried in his arm. "But the wand's out of commission, and we're sitting ducks with the evidence in our hands." He groaned, ignoring the pain as he ripped out one of the bigger shards, grimacing at the blood staining the wood, "Face it Harry, we're going to get caught red-handed the moment the rest of the aurors come racing down…"

"No," Harry grit his teeth, eyes flaring in determination, "They won't." He stood up and stumbled over to where the auror lay slumped against their cell bars, dead. "They won't," he repeated quietly, reaching down and prying the dead man's stiff hands open, placing the remains of the broken wand firmly in his grasp. "Get over here, Snape, and help me stick the pieces in his hands. They'll think it exploded on him, not us."

"You're pushing it too far," Snape hissed, coming up behind him, "They'll know it was us."

"No they won't, okay?" Harry snarled, "Help me, you idiot!"

Between them they worked in silence, hissing as they pulled out the splinters lodged in their arms and shoved them into the auror's own, ignoring the blood this produced. The Dementors eventually wandered back to the corpse, but Snape had been ready and threw the bottled _Patroni_ at them, driving them off once more in a flash of successful white.

"Thanks," Harry muttered, shivering as he finished the handiwork, trying not to let his hands tremble too much, "God, I hate them so much." They both slumped back to the walls, staring at the cold corpse.

"Are you a religious man?" Snape asked him quietly, noting the sudden silence all around them once the Dementors had gone.

"Not really," Harry remarked with the same soft tone, grateful Snape was changing the topic, "I've never sat down and thought about it. You?"

"Never had the reason nor desire to believe in a higher entity. I've already served one too many masters in my lifetime." Snape muttered bitterly. "I don't need more on my plate."

They didn't say much after that.

It actually took longer than Harry assumed for the rest of the aurors to realize one of their own men was down. When they finally did, however, a storm of them came rushing through the long hallways, screaming and howling in horror at the corpse. They never once suspected it had been the inmates huddled in the darkness, and although Harry felt relieved they'd passed notice, he couldn't help but feel that, with the Light's soldiers so idiotic and useless, they would never win the war against Voldemort.

He hadn't forgotten his duty, even at the moment of slaying one from his own side for a petty reason. Voldemort was still his ultimate goal, and it would always be. But now, Harry realized without much fanfare, he knew that hiding behind Headmasters and running away from responsibility in the similar way these aurors did unconsciously would never result in triumph. If he wanted to fully eradicate the Dark Lord, his lackies, and all the harmful Darkness the wizards feared—he would have to be similarly Dark, similarly evil.

And, staring at the empty space where the dead auror used to be, he realized he was already the Dark being he needed to be to carry on his purpose. Now all he had to do was wait for the opportunity, and take it without hesitation, without remorse.

It was that simple, and that complicated.

"You know," Harry spoke dully, "I don't…I don't feel anything. For him, I mean. Nor for any of the others I've taken down with me." He wondered if he was crazy, and settled with a yes and a smirk.

"I wish I were the same," Snape muttered, staring at the wall, "And though not all of them bring me regret, I feel every murder I've ever committed."

Harry glanced at his cellmate, feeling wisps of shame. "I should be in for life," he whispered guiltily, "You should be the one getting out of here in a few years. You deserve it."

"Funny how life is a bitch," Snape remarked without emotion.

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Thanks for reading! 


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** Holy crap guys, you're all amazing! Thank you so much for the prompt response filled with wonderful reviews :D I'm glad most of you are enjoying the fic, and I hope I can continue to deliver! This chapter's rather short, I admit, but at least the plot is moving forward now.

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**Chapter 9 - **_Belated Saviour_

The aurors' footsteps had been loud against the stone floor, echoing up and down the corridor even before they'd come into view. Their visit had not been unexpected, so there had been little surprise. The pair consisted of a nervous-looking young man and an older, grizzly auror who had a very long moustache. They were dressed in the regular auror attire, and walked with what seemed like forced professionalism, clearly revealing they were quite reluctant to come so deep into Azkaban for a lowly prisoner.

"Prisoner Snape, Severus," the latter growled out, the lit wand in his hand illuminating his face eerily.

Said man lifted his head, hollow but intelligent and sane eyes looking deep into the speaker's own. The new auror shivered, and quickly looked away, avoiding the piercing gaze. The older auror, clearly the one in control, stood firmly in place behind the younger one and returned the eye glare. He'd expected the hook-nosed man to be insane by now, having charted the time he'd spent here, but apparently, this was not so.

"From higher authority, you have been issued a trial to prove your innocence or your guilt this twelfth of July, 1982. Your defense has been issued by one Albus Dumbledore."

Snape merely blinked, betraying nothing behind cold eyes.

"Step out of your cell. You will be introduced to a new residence to prepare yourself for the audience."

The former Death Eater wavered to his feet, clutching to his dignity and shielding his face into total neutrality. Even with his rags and gaunt face, Severus Snape looked like a formidable and dangerous man. The new recruit shivered again, stepping back slightly. Snape smirked then, and the older auror scowled. He pointed his lit wand firmly at the young man's back, waving it threateningly before jerking it in the direction of the corridor.

"Follow us."

Obediently, Snape strode forward, taking his place in between the two aurors. He didn't even spare a glance at his cellmate, who sat in a corner unmoving, peering at their backs. The stiff, strong cell door closed behind them, resounding loudly. The abandoned one heard the retreating footsteps, and then nothing.

"Good luck, you bastard," Harry muttered to himself and curled closer into the corner, closing his eyes tightly.

° ° °

"_Dumbledore has managed to give you a trial, and he'll probably be able to get you out with no strings attached if all goes well," Kingsley Shacklebolt, an undercover auror from the Order, was saying._

_Snape titled his head forward slightly, and spoke softly, "Tell him…I send him my appreciation."_

"_I'll do that," Shacklebolt agreed quickly, and looked around shiftily. Seeing no one, he leaned in closer. "Just don't contradict anything he says, alright? And watch out for any aurors. They get pretty bloodthirsty when a suspected Death Eater goes free."_

_Snape nodded dutifully, and the Order member swiftly turned around and marched off, meandering around like a usual auror on Azkaban patrol would do before disappearing down the hallway._

"_Congratulations," Harry broke the silence, "You're getting out after all."_

_Snape looked at his cellmate who was enshrouded in the plentiful darkness of the corner, hiding him from any onlooker than did not know he was there. "I suppose," he said neutrally._

"_Damn," Harry smirked lazily, glancing at him drunkenly with half-lidded eyes, "You'd better tell me what the light feels like."_

"_I'll do that," Snape echoed Shacklebolt's words, and they said no more._

° ° °

They shaved his filthy beard and cleaned his face, gave him a clean Azkaban-issued cloak and let him take a very cold, very brief shower. The aurors would've gladly let him go to the trial just like he was, stinking of human waste, sweat and looking like shit—but said higher authority refused to receive him as such, let alone allow uncalled for abuse. Not that this had ever stopped them, however, this Death Eater wasn't like the others, as he was under the public protection of one Headmaster of Hogwarts.

And not just that; this was a trial involving the entirety of the Wizengamot. Prisoners, no matter how vile, simply could not be presented to the full court like the filth they probably were. It went against all respectable regulations.

Plus, Albus Dumbledore and his lackies would be there as a testimony of this man's innocence. The Headmaster of Hogwarts was sure to notice the mistreatment, and that might get the Ministry in more trouble than it found necessary. Not that anybody really cared about Azkaban prisoners. Still, it wouldn't hurt to be cautious. The Hogwarts Headmaster was a very powerful man, and provoking him with blatant abuse of his subjects—no matter how lowly—wasn't quite ideal.

° ° °

_Walk_, they tell him harshly, and he stumbles to obey, legs still weak from his prolonged stay in Azkaban. He refuses to look up and see the jeering or otherwise hostile faces of the court that are to judge him, only meeting his savior's eyes when they shove him onto a stiff chair. Chains snake around his wrists, almost making him jerk instinctively in order to escape.

"We are here to open the trail for one Severus Snape, accused of belonging to You-Know-Who's alliance as a Death Eater, working and conspiring against the Ministry…"

Cold drops on his lips, a haze around his mind. _Veritaserum_, he knows immediately.

"What is your name?"

"Severus Snape."

"State your full name and age."

"Severus Tobias Snape Prince. I think I am twenty-one."

He can feel the people beyond him tittering, but he does not know if it is in anger of if it is in pity. He does not care, either way.

"Think?"

"I do not know the date."

"You are getting off track, Interrogator. Please get to the point."

"O-of course…sorry, your honour. Are you a Death Eater?"

"I am."

"Do you serve You-Know-Who?"

"Not any more."

"But you are a Death Eater?"

"Yes."

"Please expand on this."

"…"

"Ask a question, Interrogator."

"Yes, forgive me. How are you a Death Eater yet you do not serve You-Know-Who?"

"The Dark Lord is gone."

"I _know_ that—!"

"Be calm, Interrogator. Take a breath."

"Forgive me, your honour. I lost my temper. How long have you been a Death Eater?"

"Since before my graduation."

"Are you a spy for Albus Dumbledore?"

"Yes."

"When did you become a spy for him?"

He allows himself a brief moment of struggle with the strong liquid before letting the words spill; "After I killed a child."

"Oh, so you've killed?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"…"

"That is too broad a question, Interrogator."

"…how many people have you killed during your Death Eater days?"

"I do not know."

"…"

"Is that all, Interrogator?"

"Not yet, your honour. Are you freely admitting that you are a murderer?"

"Yes."

"Are you freely admitting that you are a Death Eater?"

"Yes."

"There you go, your honour. He admits his crimes. He is guilty."

A voice cries indignantly from the stands. "With all due respects, your honour, he has killed, but only to preserve his position as a spy!" It is not Dumbledore, he knows, so the defensive argument shocks him slightly. _Who is it_? His mind cannot remember. He wonders if he is thankful, and decides whoever spoke up is a moron.

"Silence," the so called 'honour' says sharply somewhere before him, "Is that all, Interrogator?"

"Yes, your honour."

Smugness. _All aurors are the same_. The haze is lifting slightly. He was always good at blocking his mind from mild truth serums, and apparently Veritaserum is not much different. Three more minutes, and the effects will be completely over. A normal wizard would have the effects for around an hour's time, the lingering taste urging them to tell the truth for a while longer.

But not him.

"Alright. The Defense may come up and question the accused."

"Thank you, your honour. Severus Snape, you previously stated that you were a spy for Albus Dumbledore…"

Never him.

° ° °

"I apologize for taking so long, m'dear," the old man was saying, "The Ministry can be so stubborn."

Snape said nothing, merely looking at the floor. It was really quite interesting. He hadn't noticed that rugs could have so many different patterns; he supposed that several months of staring at smooth walls made any other setting look marvelous.

"At least you can come home now."

_Home_, Snape thought. _I have no home anymore_. He merely nodded obediently.

"I'm sorry about your wand."

Snape shrugged slightly. He was due for a replacement anyway—that old thing had been falling apart ever since he'd gotten it second-hand his first year.

"Severus, are you alright?"

Another nod. _Fine Albus_, he thought. _I'm perfectly fine_. The air was much warmer here, the light beautiful. He had to tell Harry this, he remembered, and resolved to do so soon. But first he wanted to sleep, sleep forever.

_I'm so fine I could cry_.

A worried glance. "If you say so, dear. Come now, I've got something I wish to ask of you once we're back in my office, though first I must insist you lay down for a while. You look terrible m'dear…"

Snape is relieved that no one is there to see him when he actually does start to cry.

° ° °

A week of silence, loneliness and solitude passed rather quickly.

Harry felt the absence clearly those first few days, and sometimes found himself speaking to someone that was no longer there. Frequently he would crawl over to Snape's corner and lay down, wishing the real man were still here. After thinking that, he would take it back, knowing that Snape was much better out there, safe, alive. It would be selfish to want him back here with him, only to suffer.

It was a week before he got any word of Snape. It came in the form of a letter.

It was not delivered by just any auror—if that had been so, then it would've been ripped apart and never given—but by Shacklebolt, who was miraculously still somehow on Azkaban duty. He was bewildered by Dumbledore's request, but nonetheless walked down the levels to deliver it safely. Quickly he found the former cell of Severus Snape again and peered into the darkness. He saw nothing, and shivered.

"Um..." he started, "Is anyone in there?"

As if his voice had summoned it, a skeleton—no, a _man_—crept out from a previously unnoticed corner. His green eyes were dull and haunted, his face sunken in, his chin littered with a messily shaved beard. His hair was in thick, matted tresses that hung limply around his face, easily letting Shacklebolt know he was facing a long-time Azkaban inmate.

Gathering up his composure, the black man asked quietly, "Is your name 'Harry'?"

"Maybe," the prisoner smirked. His voice was a croak, raspy and raw, sending a shiver down Kingley's back.

Shacklebolt frowned, "Well, if it is, this is for you." He hastily slid the slim letter through the narrow opening between two bars, letting the folded paper flutter to the ground. Without further ado, he swiveled around and walked off, shivering at the incredible coldness of the level and wishing his damn shift would just end. Thank Merlin he wasn't expected to stay and wait for a reply.

Harry stared at the letter for about an hour, and only reached forward to grab it when he was sure it didn't contain anything lethal. Even then, he carefully held it in his bony grasp, his hand trembling madly and the paper along with it.

Who was it from?

With shaking fingers, he broke the unsigned seal and unfolded the parchment. His eyes crossed and blurred for a few frustrating seconds before they finally adjusted and allowed him to read. It was only a sentence, three words, but it made him smile.

'_It feels warm_.'

He closed his eyes and slumped back onto the wall, chuckling. The paper fell from his weak hold and fluttered down to the cold ground softly, making no sound as it did. He laughed and laughed and laughed, letting it all out for what seemed like the first time in ages, his raspy voice echoing down the halls.

_Warm_.

He could only look forward to the day when he would be able to feel the warmth of light Snape had described so vividly.

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	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** Three more final exams to go! Dx Wish me luck, guys! Anyways, after this chapter, things will start getting weird and complicated. I'm almost done with Chapter 16, so you guys are guaranteed weekly updates until the end of January.

One more thing - you guys are INCREDIBLE! Thank you so much for your insightful reviews and I look forward to your new comments! Keep it up!

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**Chapter 10 - **_Losses_

Time passed, as it usually does.

Harry was transferred down two more levels in late July, adding to the cold that should've been the warmth of a summer season. He was booked with another cellmate for around two weeks, but, unlike Snape, this cellmate was utterly and totally catatonic. The other died those two weeks later, unnamed, unknown and hastily forgotten. Harry felt a brief shot of pity for his second cellmate, but shook it off quickly, knowing better than to remember and feel.

His third and final cellmate was, to his chagrin, yet another Death Eater. However this time, it took him much longer to realize just who it was.

He'd lost track of time by then, and hadn't tried to get it back. Now that Snape was gone, there was no longer need to know the date. He didn't feel like marking the countless days anymore, because it made him depressed. Besides, there was hardly any light here to even see past your fingers, let alone small scratch marks on the cold, unforgiving ground. For all he knew, another year had passed spent in utter darkness.

This cellmate sulked around a lot like Snape, but he was much fiercer when it came to food contests. He would scratch, bite and howl like an angry animal, startling Harry into submission most of the time. Unlike the upper levels, in the seventh floor there was still only one food bowl for two, causing much violence in between inmates. Down here, however, there weren't any aurors to enjoy the fight.

Down here, Dementors were the kings.

Harry suspected there were many more Dementors on the seventh floor than in the sixth, but that did not change the fact that, comparing his former prison cell to his current one, there were countless more daily attacks than before. It reminded him of the first few months of his arrival at Azkaban, when he spent his days in a horror-filled pit of bad memories, unable to move or speak as they repeated over and over.

That is, if he had enough energy to remember.

His cellmate was ruthless. Unlike Snape's brief moments of kindness, this third mate was completely savage and did not have a care in the world if he broke his cellmate's nose or fractured a bone. The only things he spoke coherently were to praise his Lord and his return, despite the obvious downfall. Completely opposite of Snape, Harry felt nothing but utter contempt to this Death Eater. They were not alike, like him and Snape. Murderers they were, yes, but totally distinct from one another.

Harry could not liken himself in any way to this beast.

The day he realized just who exactly he'd been bunked with, was the day the little fuck bit off his finger.

It had been the usual day of moping around in silence, waiting for their daily meal to come and see who would get it first, when Harry heard the other's mutters. Sure, the Death Eater had rambled on about the Dark Lord's return and his own importance in the Death Eater society and how he'd get out of this shit hole to return to his Master, etc, etc…but this was the first time the other muttered about things long gone, mumbling in fever-struck delirium.

"Name…fucking father who gave me his name…we are the same, my Lord…I will kill him, my father, and we will be the same…"

Harry would've dismissed it. In fact, he would've all together ignored it and tried to keep on sleeping for a while longer, had he not remembered. Those few almost incoherent words had brought him spinning back to a memory long-unburied by the Dementors, so fuzzy that he believed it forever unclear.

_Cedric's Death_.

There had been a Death Eater, then—many, in fact. But only one who'd proclaimed himself the same as his Lord, their similarities binding them…

_Crouch. Barty Crouch Jr_.

Indeed, a closer look determined this was the pitiless Death Eater that would one day impersonate Mad-Eye Moody.

Yet another Death Eater that would rise and cause chaos in the future, only to die Kissed, like so many would. He was one of the many reasons Voldemort had rose again. This little fact caused a fury of anger and hate and disgust to rise within his heart, very similar to his own reaction with Wormtail. If he got rid of this Death Eater…if he killed him before he got a change to slip away from Azkaban…

_Voldemort's return would be stopped_.

Had Harry been thinking clearly, or stopped to consider his own actions, he would've realized that even doing this would not have stopped Voldemort from coming back. He would've remembered that he could not change the future, no matter how hard he tried, since it had already occurred. Harry hadn't been thinking clearly, just like he hadn't been thinking clearly when he'd killed Peter Pettigrew Sr and his squib friend.

But that was a regret for another day.

With a roar of mingled rage and anger, Harry leapt out of his curled up position, ignoring the pain of his weak muscles as he slammed his body onto Crouch's, bringing his fist back and successfully punching the Death Eater's face. Crouch cried out—in shock, in pain, Harry didn't know nor did he care—and snarled, clutching his nose as it spurted blood. Immediately, quicker than Harry would've thought possible for being in such terrible condition, the Death Eater slammed his knee into his cellmate's stomach, causing Harry to loose his breath.

Harry nonetheless did not cease his attack. Barty Crouch Jr struggled fiercely, both of them hissing and spitting like angry snakes as they struck each other in mindless violence. Savage like his cellmate, Harry plunged his head forward and bit Crouch's arm, feeling strangely satisfied when the other howled in pain. Crouch shook Harry off and slammed him onto the wall, punching the green-eyed man in return as he grabbed a fistful of his cell mate's rags in order to close the distance his arm had to travel to deliver said blows.

Now realizing this was getting out of control, Harry fruitlessly tried to shove Crouch away, pushing the Death Eater's head as he tried to separate himself from the other. A mistake, however, was having his outstretched hand on Crouch's face, his left ring finger near the other's mouth. A few seconds later, and all Harry was feeling was sheer pain coming from said finger.

He shrieked and howled as he struggled, trying to break his hand free from the other's wicked hold. Crouch bit down harshly, his eyes alight with an insane glow as he bared his teeth into a grin, blood coating the yellow-stained bones as his teeth crunched Harry's finger between them. Then, with a sickening final clench of muscles, the last part of the finger's three joints was severed off, bone and all.

Harry screamed and screamed, kicking and shrieking as he held his mangled hand close. Crouch leered in triumph as he crawled back to his own space, spitting out the bit of finger he'd claimed as he coughed on the blood. He laughed at Harry's pain, laughed and laughed, creating a sick sort of music only heard and created here in Azkaban…

The Dementors came and went, leaving behind a single plate of food. Harry was too busy cradling his mutilated limb to take notice, sobbing quietly as he tried not to moan too loudly. He still had his pride, and did not want to remember Wormtail's own shrieks as he'd lost his hand during Voldemort's return.

Crouch, ignorant of his cellmate's suffering, merely crawled over to the single pail of water and cupped his hands into it, washing his mouth and spitting back into the bowl without a care in the world for their dwindling drinking supply. He also took some care into snapping his nose back in place with barely a wince, wiping off the blood. And, in a final act of cruelty, he pulled down his pants and fucking _pissed in the bucket_, polluting the rest of the water so Harry would be unable to take a sip from that without throwing up, grinning all the while.

Harry rocked himself back and forth in his own corner, whimpering, trying to ignore the disgusting sounds of his fucking cellmate destroying their water supply. His left hand was bleeding furiously, staining his clothes as he tried to make it stop. Eventually the blood loss sent him spinning into unconsciousness.

Azkaban had, incredibly, just become worse.

°°°

The loss of his finger had not crippled him useless. When he woke up from his blood-induced sleep, Harry had immediately planned and ravaged his revenge upon his cellmate. Using the polluted pail of water, he'd drained it quietly while the other slept and then, angrily, he'd slammed it down on the unsuspecting other's head. Crouch had given a startled howl as he awoke to hazy pain, but Harry had felt no pity. He'd slammed the metal pail over and over again, barely realizing he was laughing hysterically as Crouch was banged into unconsciousness.

"Take that you fucking _bastard_!" Harry hissed, eyes alight with fury and pain as his left hand throbbed with unhealed agony. Crouch's head was spouting blood and he was probably sporting a rather unfortunate concussion from his harsh beating, but Harry gave it no mind. He merely stumbled back to his corner and laughed, feasting upon the gruel he'd managed to win this time in his triumph.

"Take that," he muttered again, shivering slightly as his minute-long glee inevitably brought upon the Dementors.

For some obscure reason, he had been unable to see the soul-sucking demons ever since the wand-exploding incident, but he passed it on as a blessing. Perhaps his eyes had grown so accustomed to the deadness of the darkness that when the creatures passed by they inconspicuously blended in with the black surroundings, relieving him of having to see the hooded horrors. In any case, he didn't want to see them. The sight of them would only bring him further pain that he could be spared if he only experienced their effects rather than their appearance.

They weren't very pretty, you see.

The Dementors went away soon enough. Their attention, however, made Harry become inexplicably thirsty, and he wondered when their pails would be refilled. Today? Tomorrow? In any case, it wouldn't be for a while yet. He glanced at the spilt, blood- and piss-tainted water that had formed puddles on the floor near them and frozen with the Dementor's presence, getting an idea. As there was no dignity in this place, he quite placidly went down to his hands and knees and tilted his head down, lapping at the dirty, cold water.

Since Crouch was out, he wasn't there to neither jeer at him or throw nasty jibes, nor attack him from behind. It was perfectly safe to consume the water this way, if one didn't count that it was disgusting and unhealthy. The liquid had a slightly bitter tinge to it, but otherwise tasted no different that usual. Harry counted it as another thing to be thankful for, ignoring the way his stomach rebelled at the thought of what he was consuming.

Once he'd satisfied his craving, he slumped down on the ground right there and then, ignoring the fact that his rags were getting soggy and would inevitably freeze him to death if he remained wet like this. Harry was exhausted, his left hand amazingly still bleeding somewhat, though it had slowed down to a trickle. He absently ripped a part of his shirt with his right hand and carefully wrapped it around the stub that remained of his ring finger, wincing and hissing at the pain the action caused. At least this way, he thought rationally, the bleeding would stop completely and perhaps not get too infected from lack of sanitation.

°°°

Several uncounted hours later, Crouch awoke with a mind-splitting headache and a brief memory of a furious cellmate, inspiring fury within him at being attacked while defenseless. Out of a sense of revenge, he caught Harry unawares and thus ensued another fight involving a lot of screaming and snarling. Unluckily (or perhaps fortunately?) two aurors were on patrol duty and managed to break them apart, stunning them both immediately.

Since Azkaban was no longer nearly quite as stuffed as it had been months before just after the defeat of Voldemort, both aurors didn't think it unwise to separate both inmates and put them in different cells. Harry's daily fights with his cellmates had earned him a reputation with the patrolling wizards that enjoyed watching his scuffles, and thus it was deemed that he was far too dangerous to remain with another for the rest of his stay. With little further decision, they dragged Harry down to the last and most horrifying level, shoving the man into a solitary cell where he would have no human contact whatsoever for the rest of the time he remained in Azkaban.

In many ways, it was both for the best and the worst.

There was now no way to count the time spent in Azkaban. No light, no loose rocks to write with, _nothing_. The silence was invading, unbearable as the walls were sound-proof, shutting off the crazed prisoners' screams from outside and from within. No one could hear him, and he couldn't hear anyone. His ears may have well been deaf but for the faint pounding of his persistent heart within his chest.

No one bothered him now, as the door he'd been thrown in from had somehow disappeared. Now there was truly no way out. Perhaps a charm, Harry thought numbly. _Charming_. Had he laughed at that thought? He couldn't remember.

Since there was absolutely nothing to do now, and his cell was so pathetically small not even walking was possible, Harry took to sleeping. He'd close his eyes and let them rest, blink once, and then go down under again. Days and weeks and months passed in this daze, only awaking to feed himself when he grew hungry or thirsty.

Food itself was amazingly more plentiful as there was no one to fight with and the single bowl and water pail were always there when he woke up. Or perhaps he'd been sleeping for so long that by the time he'd been conscious again, food had been replenished. Whatever the reason, Harry's mind was sure that it was getting fed more, and that was enough.

The Dementors were now, dare he say it, permanent. Their chill was always, _always_ there. But, in some ways, it was what kept him alive. He could feel and remember things when Dementors were around. If not, he may as well been just another rock in the wall. Memories liked to slip away, shift into something new, and return changed. In fact, Harry couldn't be sure if what he was remembering now was even correct.

He couldn't see, he couldn't feel, he couldn't hear, he couldn't taste, he couldn't smell.

Living without knowing, surviving without sensing.

Merlin, the days were long. But what was a day anyway?

* * *

Thanks for reading! Drop by a review if you liked it, and if you didn't, drop one anyway xD 


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **Vaguely remembering six glasses of wine and a cup of diluted whiskey with a taste of lemons, plus something funny about Jamacan hair and a smelly scarf, I woke up understandably late and with more than a bit of a headache.Thankfully this chapter was already done, and though it's already late in the afternoon, I hope it's alright for now. Tomorrow I'll post Chapter 12 as a Christmas gift, and Chapter 13 on Monday. Then the schedule will continue every Saturday

This is a strange chapter, and short, but I promise it'll get less crazy and more interesting nearing the later chapters. Please bear with me:D In further news, **I am in search of a beta**. If you don't mind me sending you the latest chatper with a plea for aid in the gramatical and logistics aspect of the fic, then just send me a private message or drop by a review asking for the job. I'll check out your profile or whatever and send you a message back. Thanks!

Without further ado, here's...

* * *

**Chapter 11 - **_Visitor in the Dark_

It came to be that Harry decided it would be nice to feel again.

He didn't quite remember how feeling felt, but that was too confusing, so he didn't pause to contemplate the _hows_ and _whys_. He simply did, and someway or another he'd accomplish it. The Ant, he recalled, wasn't so nice. The House wasn't nice either. But the grass was nice, and the air was nice, and the hope was nice. What was nice? _Pleasant_.

Pleasant…

The Castle was pleasant, he knew. The Castle was _beautiful_. He remembered old, old stones, but not like the ones he was sitting on—they were _warm_ stones, _beautiful_ stones. Warm…warm…light was warm, wasn't it? Light was warm…light was good. _Good_.

He could see the good Castle now, its old stones and its warm light, long, long halls with opened doors calling to him. Life, life…existence, continuation…life had been _good_. Yells and cries came from the long, continuous halls, but they weren't the yells and cries he remembered here, here in the cold…they were happy, _happy_, good in the warmth. Good happy yells of little boys and little girls with bright red hair and frizzy brown. Freckles and buck-toothed smiles, hearts fluttering as they ran and ran…

Running.

Life was good, but life was about running, always about running…running down those good, long, continuous halls…the light was warm at the end, it was always warm, light was. But he wasn't warm right now; he was cold, cold, _cold_. It was dark, the _absence_ of light. The _absence_ of warmth.

Oh God he missed the light.

How long till tomorrow? God, how long till tomorrow?

The Castle was warm underneath his fingers, even though his body was cold. Tomorrow would be light, he knew. He _knew_. Light would be tomorrow, so he only had to wait. Had to wait for tomorrow. Had to wait for tomorrow to feel the warmth of light…

Instead of running, he walked down the halls. Don't want tomorrow to come too quickly, or where would today go? Familiar faces blinked down at him from their wooden frames, frowning, staring, not happy at his return. Not happy…they weren't pleasant, they weren't nice…but the Castle was nice, the Castle was _beautiful_. The Castle pushed him forward, forward, don't stop to look around just keep going…

_Don't look Harry, don't look while the light goes out_.

Down endless stairs but he was calm, he was patient. The Castle's warmth was with him, even though he was cold, and that was enough. Stairs, another step and another, down, down, _down_. Not pleasant, not happy, not warm, but it had feeling. It had feeling, and Harry wanted to feel, right?

_Keep going my baby child, keep walking, don't trip, don't fall…_

Opening a door after walking a familiar path, and a smell, oh God a _smell_…it was familiar, familiar, _family_, close to home…familiar smell of bubbles and scents and other things. Not happy, but not unpleasant, familiar. Close to Home. _Home_. And the good Castle led him by the hand, around the pots that exploded and expanded, further forth into the loneliness of one…

Just one look, one more look at the family and I'll be gone, I promise, I'll go back to the cold….

"…Harry?"

His face wasn't the same, wasn't warm, it was _surprised_. _Shocked_, like the white flashes in the sky. Wasn't happy, wasn't pleasant, but it was familiar. And in the cold, this bitter cold, anything familiar was beautiful.

Familiar…Beautiful…pleasant…nice…

His face was beautiful, beautiful in its _absence_ of warmth, in its _absence _of happiness. We're in this together, right? We're not alone in this Darkness, in this _absence_ of light. We're together now, here, in this Darkness…in this beautiful, beautiful Darkness…

_Just a little farther_ _and the light will drown, but it's alright, alright, alright_…

"Wanted to see you," Harry croaked, but when opened his eyes, his only companion was the darkness of his enclosed solitary staring back at him. Closing his eyes again, he let the tears flow and wept noiselessly, his ears deaf and his voice mute.

God, how long till tomorrow?

° ° °

Greasy limp black hair hung around his face like a curtain, a sharp, crooked hooked nose jutting out from his sunken cheeks. His eyes were a dead black, darker than the night itself, pits filled with mental traps that would lure and kill you in an instant. Mouth curled into a permanent snarl, curled lips voicing unannounced amusement at this miserable world.

Severus Tobias Snape had never been handsome, but even now, a year after Azkaban, he was frighteningly skeletal. His eyes had gained a deeper look of one who has nothing, and doesn't ever expect to have anything. At his return, the then-teachers had flinched under his unstaring, deadened gaze, shooting pitiful looks when his back was turned. Quickly, a snarl or two of savage words had healed them of their notions, but even now his state earned him unnecessary sympathy.

The Headmaster had assured him a position as the youngest Potions Master at Hogwarts immediately after his arrival, and he'd begun teaching the very same year of his release. The media and parents had erupted into a furious mass of scapegoat-seeking wizards, demanding Albus reconsider his actions for allowing a former Azkaban inmate—a _Death Eater_—to teach their children. Snape had been half-expecting his immediate shipping back into Hell's open arms, but Dumbledore had stood up for him once again, shielding him from anybody's negative exposure.

Snape didn't give a damn for what others thought, be he knew well enough that he had to lay low from the eyes of both Light-lovers and former Dark-dealers. Albus would protect him from the vengeful Light, but those of the Dark were his own business. In fact, Lucius came to him half a month after his release, eyes sharp and terse with suspicion and tense air.

_Are you a Traitor_? He'd asked.

_No_, Snape had said.

_Good_, Lucius had smiled, and patted him on the back. _Good to have you back, friend_.

Snape had nodded, and said no more. Lucius hadn't expected him to, and left Hogwarts swiftly. The traditional afternoon tea with Albus had earned him a knowing nod at his report, but nothing verbal. Undoubtedly Dumbledore had already known of Lucius's unannounced intrusion and his own response.

_You aren't a traitor, Severus_, Dumbledore's eyes had said. _Are you_?

_No_, Snape had blinked.

_Good_, Albus had relaxed. And that was that.

Trust was a mostly foreign concept to Snape, but he was grateful for it now. Although he was sure he hadn't lied to any of them. He wasn't a traitor. After all, how could one be a traitor to oneself? Like a true Slytherin, his loyalty remained solely to himself, no one else. Dumbledore may be an ally in a sense, but he refused to be on anybody's side but his own.

There were countless benefits to being under Albus's protection; however, his promise in exchange—continuing his detailed reports and snooping around as the black agent as he used to—was very much exhausting. The ventures weren't frightening, not anymore after years of practice, but they were tiring.

And now, being a teacher, his work load had doubled.

Classes were a handful, and the dunderheads inevitably frustrating. Children were stupid, he'd always known, but the realization that he actually had to insert effort in order to make them learn _anything_ was incredibly infuriating. How idiotic could they possibly be? Their lack of interest was obvious, but their further lack of respect was maddening. If they didn't want to learn, it was their funeral, but he would not have them frolic and gossip in his class like giggling…_children_.

They would _work_, even if their damnable brains refused to learn.

Oh the complaints were numerous and his co-worker's former pitiful gazes eventually turned into scowls and glares, but Snape was firm in his way of teaching. Albus had sighed and tried to curve him into a more tolerable teacher, but Snape wouldn't have it. _If you want me to remain, _Snape had glared, _accept how I am_.

For a second, a small fear had curled in his stomach. He'd crossed a line of defiance, an unforgivable line that indicated respect, a stupid mistake that would've earned him slow, painful death in the Death Eater service. However, Albus had merely chuckled and sighed like the old man he was, and moved on.

"Try to be gentle once in a while, m'dear," he'd settled, "And don't frighten any of them too much."

"I won't," Snape had murmured, a relaxed smirk on his lips.

The year itself had passed quickly enough, reunions coming and going as quickly as Snape's silver tongue could spit out acidic words. It was strange at first, certainly, and more than enough disconcerting to have to teach alongside his own former teachers, but he managed. Even more frustrating was the fact that Professor McGonagall still gazed at him with the unwanted pity now and then. The other teachers—namely the Divination coward Trelawney—tended to avoid him, which suited Snape just fine. Albus was practically the only one that could stimulate conversation from him, and not much even then.

It was a regular summer afternoon, blissfully free of children until September, that Snape was down in his personal Potions lab, thinking. His nimble fingers were calmly stirring an easy enough potion while his mind wandered. He hadn't thought of Azkaban for many months, but now he allowed himself a moment of reminiscence.

Ever since he'd last approached Dumbledore with the request of sending a letter to Azkaban, he'd banished himself from ever thinking of the man he'd left behind there. The prison had been a terrible nine months, yes, but now he realized they hadn't been half bad. Those nine months had been nothing compared to the torture he'd endured alone as a spy and a student at Hogwarts all those years ago.

He'd, dare he say it, made a friend.

Still, however, who knew how the other was doing? Worry was not part of the emotions usually associated with Severus Snape. _Stop_, he told himself. _Forget about him. _He didn't even know the other's last name—in fact, how _had_ Harry known his own? Snape couldn't quite recall all of their conversations, but he was sure he hadn't mentioned his last name yet the other had known it all the same.

_No use wondering about it now_, he told himself, tuning himself back to his task.

Belatedly he realized he was five seconds late in adding the crushed snake fangs and hastily grabbed said ingredient, pouring in the dust-like substance at the specified regular intervals. He just barely managed to salvage the potion, but now it was far too diluted to do much good. Sighing at his absentmindedness, he stopped the flame and removed the cauldron, deciding to take a break before starting over again.

_Screwing up a simple Boil-Cure Potion_, he berated himself as he cleaned out the cauldron, mentally re-organizing his mind's priorities. _This is pathetic_.

Harry was locked up, and would continue to be locked up for another four years. There was nothing he could do about it, nor did he intend to do anything either. Doing so would compromise his own safety, and that wasn't something he found ideal. Unwavering loyalty wasn't something closely associated with the Snape surname, either.

_Stop thinking, Snape_, he repeated harshly. _Just…stop_.

He turned around to leave the room when he swore his heart stopped and gave a jerk.

In front of him was a very familiar gaunt-looking man, long tresses of dreadlocks falling over his pale green eyes as the ghost stared at him numbly.

"…Harry?" Snape whispered, eyes wide.

"Wanted to see you," the specter croaked emptily, and disappeared.

There was nothing there. Just a blink, and Harry was gone. Snape stumbled back, hitting the stool and knocking over the drying cauldron, causing a loud noise as it clattered to a stop on the floor. "What the…" he mumbled, heart pounding in his chest. He closed his eyes and opened them again, but there was nothing still.

Snape raised a hand to his head and massaged his temples, groaning to himself. "One too many potion fumes," he muttered aloud, "Just one too many." Yeah, if he kept repeating that, he'd believe it. Slumping down to the ground, Snape grit his teeth and exhaled loudly.

Merlin I need to sleep before I go insane.

* * *

Thanks for reading! If you liked the chapter or the story as a whole, please don't hesitate to drop by a review! 


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **Feliz Navidad! It's the twenty-fourth of December and you all deserve a treat for being so patient and wonderfully responsive! Thank you so much for your support!

And special thanks go out to my two wonderful and completely thorough betas - **Tsurai no Shi** and **Cessations** - for without them, this chapter would be terrible!

* * *

**Chapter 12 - **_Specter in the Light_

Harry couldn't move.

At first, he didn't panic. After all, his mind was more mush than anything, too close to the brink of insanity to really care about mobility, especially in his enclosed solitary. He'd simply let his mind wander, as it was prone to do nowadays, letting his thoughts jump from one topic to another in no specific order as he waited for the next meal or the desire to sleep again.

However, waiting for an indefinite amount of time tended to tire Harry out, and his feeble limbs eventually began to beg to be at least stretched so the option of motor function wouldn't be completely ruled out. Sluggishly his mind told his hand to come closer so he could rub his rapidly drying eyes, but the feeling of his own cold, calloused hands never came. Jerking his head slightly was the most he could accomplish, and the only thing that achieved was unbalancing him from his careful position against the wall, tilting his body so far to one side that he simply collapsed on the floor, whacking his jaw.

Groaning soundlessly, Harry blinked stupidly for a minute, wondering what had just happened. Had he been able to see anything past his own nose in this darkness, he would've noted his vision was more than blurry. He'd lost his glasses even before Azkaban, so blurriness hadn't been a big deal for a long time now—however, this sort of blurry involved spinning walls and random bursts of red and white underneath closed eyelids. Fortunately he'd been away from any speck of light for so long that his eyes no longer had the source to inform his brain of such problems.

He simply wondered dumbly why he couldn't lift a finger, feeling a numbed pain emerging from his jaw as a reply. One could've argued that feeling pain was better than feeling the emptiness he'd experienced for the indefinite amount of time he'd spent in this dark pit of hell, but that argument would've been useless anyway.

Slowly, however, the young survivor's breathing began to hasten in the telltale signs of panic, his heart speeding up in bewildered shock.

Frost was on his lips now, and she was screaming at him, calling him a _Freak_, an unnatural child of the devil, _what the hell are you still doing alive?_ Harry's temporary immunity to the dementors had all but disappeared with his rapidly progressing illness, as shrieks and wails and screams echoed within the battered caverns of his brain, adding to his increasing panic. The inability to curl up or spasm in any way was even more frightening, his muscles dead to his pleas to move, to run, to do anything but lay there uselessly.

Eventually the assault ceased, and his blue lips warmed up slightly as the unseen creatures left to torment some other jailed criminal. But the paralysis remained, and the dread did not leave him. The slow deterioration of his senses; the loss of the ability, touch, hear, smell and taste had been—to put it mildly—the most horrible thing Harry had had to deal with these past few years of misery. But now he was no longer simply blind, deaf, mute and partially dumb. Now he couldn't even fucking _move_.

The generally accepted knowledge of those higher, supreme beings remained the same—they were as kind as they could be cruel, much like humans. But this was far too much.

_Oh God, Oh God_, Harry's mind whimpered pathetically, cold and hot bursts running up and down his spine along with his terror. _God no, don't do this to me. This is enough, please, no_.

Vaguely he could feel something rolling out of his mouth and pooling about his cold cheek. Oh, this was just _perfect_. Add another point to the ever-growing list of signs of insanity: uncontrollable drooling. His mind would've spewed out a ramble of the unfairness of life, but it was currently out of order. Still, it had enough fuel for a little thought fodder on the subject.

Harry had never quite regretted the satisfied feeling he'd experienced when he'd killed the assumed Peter Pettigrew, thus he hadn't felt the need to repent much at all during his stay here at Azkaban. But this punishment was far beyond his sin of torture and subsequent killing. This was just plain fucking _cruel_.

At least the rat's father had died relatively quickly—but months and years of your own mind and body slowly caving in was far worse. Whoever was up there really had a bad sense of humour.

Harry, now quite literally unable to do anything other than think, let his mind drift back to his strange dream. He'd had the delusion, or whatever it had been, several sleep-wake moments ago. With no other way to measure time, Harry counted by his waking moments. Those weren't probably very accurate, as he couldn't always remember how many times he'd woken up in between long, listless naps—but it was the best he could do.

The dream had involved Hogwarts, Harry was sure, and Snape. Portraits lining the long Great Hall, the stairs leading down to the Potions labs…it had been his mind recalling his own steps when he'd been there. But, as foggy and mind numbing as the experience had been, Harry was sure he had really been there. And with no other option, Harry clung to this idea, determined to go back once more.

How had he reached Hogwarts? _By remembering_.

And so Harry, lying in a pool of his own drool and unable to move an inch, made his mind think back, back, back—back to the beginning.

° ° °

The meeting was long and boring. If it hadn't been strictly mandatory, Snape would've easily skipped it and refused to show up. Unfortunately, as this was not the case, there he sat grumpily in his chair as he half-listened to the Headmaster's annual Let's-Make-Our-Teachers-Socialize speech. In fact, no one really wanted to be there except perhaps Albus, but the old man was crazy anyway so he didn't count.

Near the corner of the room, Minerva was absentmindedly fanning herself with a slim _Today's Transfiguration_ magazine, trying to seem interested when she obviously wasn't. Trelawney was snoring rather loudly and Binns was simply staring vacantly at a wall, as he always did. The other professors were in similar or worse states all around the room, sitting down lazily in their chairs and hoping desperately that the damned meeting would end soon.

Typically, Dumbledore was cheerily reminding Filch that hanging students by their toes in the dungeons was still not allowed and that banning necessary items like inking pens simply because he found them abandoned in the halls wasn't tolerable. He would then go on to chat about the student's recently reformatted schedules and the new coffee machine in the Lounge the Muggle Studies professor had imported from his summer travels with a bit of '_elektric-all_' tinkering so it would work properly in a magical setting.

Snape did not care nor was anywhere interested in enlightening himself about such foolishness. He never went up to the Lounge anyway, and why the hell would he care about misplaced ink pens irritating Filch? Still, if only to make the meeting go faster, he was careful not to insert a scathing comment or complain about the idiocy of the occasion, instead choosing to remain quiet. Dumbledore, as if reading his mind, flashed him a charming smile and popped another lemon drop into his mouth, winking at him as he allowed Filch to continue his childish complaints about student's misbehavior. Snape merely rolled his eyes discreetly and avoided the other teacher's gazes, allowing himself to drift into thought.

It had been a week since he'd seen Harry's ghost.

By now he'd quite convinced himself that the vision had merely been lack of sleep and the possible remaining traces of guilt his conscience might have. There was no way the young man could've found a way to escape Azkaban nor somehow send his spiritual essence to re-appear thousands of miles and many magical barriers away. It simply wasn't possible, by neither muggle nor magical means. Prolonged exposure to potion fumes could also alter his ability to rationalize, so there was no real argument about the hallucination's complete lack of credibility.

And thus, he gave it no more further thought. If ignorance would make his guilt go away, he'd quite happily remain apathetic.

"…and that is why, my dear Filch, whipping our students isn't the most ideal way to discipline them."

The Hogwarts equivalent of a janitor grumbled his disappointment before settling down and allowing Albus to return to his long-winded speech, glaring at the wall so hard Snape wouldn't be surprised if it caught fire.

Stifling a sigh, the young Potions Master allowed his eyes to wander, tuning out Dumbledore's cheerfully annoying voice. He grimly noted that Trelawney's snoring had advanced to the drooling stage and resisted the urge to grimace in distaste, quickly skipping her and heading onto the new DADA instructor, who was cleaning her nails, scratching her nose from time to time. Finding her actions lacking in anything interesting and not wanting to seem as if he was staring too long or Albus would get the wrong idea—he jumped over to Minerva and almost had a heart attack.

There, hovering faintly in the corner, was the ghost he'd seen last week.

It was only years of servitude under Lord Voldemort's unpredictable court that he did not jerk back or do anything similarly embarrassing like the last time. Merely he stiffened and his eyes widened slightly, but it was enough for Dumbledore to notice.

"Severus?" He interrupted his speech and looked at his young teacher, "Severus, are you all right? You look a little pale. Is something wrong?"

Albus' voice did not make Harry disappear. In fact, the ghost seemed to nod slowly at Snape, as if allowing him to look away. Reluctantly, Severus tore his eyes from the faintly transparent form and met Dumbledore's eyes levelly. He allowed himself a second to take a breath before calmly replying, "Yes Albus, I'm fine. I apologize for interrupting—it's nothing."

"Are you sure, Severus?" the Headmaster asked again, his eyes following Snape's path and stared at the corner blankly before coming back to meet the young man's eyes in slight confusion. Judging by Dumbledore's bewildered actions and the rest of the teacher's irritated glances in his direction for elongating the already extensive meeting, no one but him could see Harry's ghost. And this time, he was sure he wasn't seeing things.

His eyes did not lie twice, not with such unmistakable evidence before him.

"Yes, I'm sure," Snape said rather testily, wanting the meeting to end as soon as possible so he could investigate the matter further on his own.

It would not due to talk to Harry's ghost when everyone could not see it nor understand his actions—it would merely serve to further imply his own insanity, and he rather liked his job, thank you very much. Besides, it would attract unwanted attention from the worried Headmaster, and he didn't want to explain the entire story nor involve Harry more than he had to.

"All right, if you say so, dear…" Albus allowed, "However, will you stay after the meeting? I have something of urgent importance to talk with you in private."

_Well, shit_.

"Of course, Headmaster."

Training his eyes strictly on Dumbledore, Snape did not allow himself to look in Harry's direction again. He decided it would be best not to make any contact whatsoever when others were in the same room lest he raise suspicion on his actions. Amazingly, Albus hurried up his long-winding speech and had it nicely wrapped up in a minute or two. With a cheerful wave he dismissed his staff and nodded over to Severus, who nodded back stiffly and walked over.

"Yes, Albus?"

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling as he looked out the room's window overlooking the Quidditch field, smiling softly to himself as if deep in thought. Several moments passed in silence, Snape struggling very hard not to just whip around and stomp off. He knew the Headmaster wouldn't have asked him to stay behind if it were not important, and his distant gaze signified this was a serious matter, no matter how joking he would probably be.

"How are the labs, Severus?" he finally asked, looking into his young Potions Master's eyes.

"They are the same, as always," Snape said, and then glared, knowing Dumbledore was avoiding the topic he really wanted to talk about. "But inquiring as to the state of my chambers is not what you were intending to speak about. Don't walk around it, Albus. What is it?"

Taking his time, the Headmaster smiled at him fondly at Snape's reaction and extracted two pieces of muggle candy from his pocket, popping one in his mouth and stretching out the other. "Candy, Severus?"

Snape sneered, eyeing the candy distastefully, "Albus, if you simply called me to converse about the taste of some muggle rubbish, then I will take my leave. I have some urgent business of my own that I must deal with, and providing you with unnecessary entertainment is not on my list."

"The most important information takes time and patience, is that not what you told me once?" Dumbledore said softly, opening Severus's palm and placing the small muggle candy in it. He smiled, "Right?"

Caught with his words thrown back at him, Snape scowled and glared down at the sweet, as if it contained all the problems in his life. Albus urged him gently by raising his hand closer to his young Potion Master's face, and Severus sighed, taking the candy and carefully unwrapping it in his hand before allowing himself to place it in his mouth reluctantly. He quietly turned it around in his mouth, allowing it to dissolve.

"Do you like it?"

It actually didn't taste half bad.

"It's terrible," Severus grumbled, but did not spit it out.

"That's good, dear. I'm glad you liked it." Dumbledore chuckled merrily and turned around, walking without hastle towards the large window and touching the pane with something akin to longing.

For a moment, the old man looked almost ethereal as he basked in the sunlight, his silver hair reflecting the light brilliantly and his azure eyes seemingly endless in knowledge. Snape knew better than to gape, and merely stood there with awe in his eyes as he awaited the coming news, grim or good. Dumbledore was an incredible man, yes, but he had his faults. However, he never joked around at the expense for others without good reason.

"Severus, what would you say to taking the position of Slytherin's Head of House this year?"

Half-choking on the candy, Snape sputtered out a rather ineloquent, "What?"

The Headmaster turned his head and grinned mischievously as he watched the Potions' Master struggling with the sweet lodged in his throat. "Slytherin's Head of House," he repeated patiently, "After all, you are much more adept at handling them than our old Professor Limpnogh, and he was thinking of retiring this year anyway. What do you say?"

"Albus," Snape voiced his disbelief, "Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered. But people are already tense because I'm here. Allowing an ex-Death Eater, former Azkaban prisoner and a convict with a crime list longer than your beard to teach their children and take care of them as their Head of House would drive them more than over the edge. Are you insane?"

"So I've been told before, though I rather prefer to title myself as eccentric. Much nicer, don't you think?"

Snape glared at Albus as he continued on cautiously, "Have you even spoken of this with anyone?"

"Of course I have!" Dumbledore seemed slightly chagrined, innocently pouting in a way no old man should be capable of achieving so successfully, "I told Fawkes."

"The flaming chicken doesn't count," Snape sneered; having had a rather unlucky encounter with the animal the first time he'd entered the Headmaster's office when he was a youth, he had never understood the old man's fondness for it. It molted and squawked and was useless except for his rather priceless supply of feathers.

"He does too," The Headmaster defended his pet phoenix, and then relaxed with a grin, "So?"

Sighing as if it were the end of the world, Snape glared at the ceiling, struggling not to show the pleased smirk itching at his lips, "If you are sure that idiotic parents waving pitchforks and torches aren't going to start protesting outside Hogwarts…"

"Quite, dear," Albus said smugly, knowing he'd convinced the young man now. "Hmm…I do believe I'll make the announcement at the Welcoming Banquet."

"Larger shock factor?"

"You know me too well," Albus grinned cheekily, "Though, I am quite curious as to how Minerva will react to the news."

"Perfect Kodak moment, as they say these days," smirked Severus. "Mind taking a photo for me?" (A/N: For interested readers, Kodak has been around for more than a century. Perhaps the phrase 'Kodak moment' had not yet been coined in 1983, but for the sake of the fic, it has been XD –shot-)

Dumbledore laughed merrily, wiping an invisible tear at the corner of his eye. "Oh Severus, I can always count on you and your remarks. I'm happy you accepted the position, and I fully trust your abilities. May I invite you for a spot of tea at my office? We can speak more freely there."

Snape shook his head reluctantly, "I would, but unlike your evasive actions a few minutes ago, I do indeed have important things to do right now. I have a batch of potions waiting to be finished and I cannot let them stew on their own for much longer; I'm sure you understand."

"Completely, dear," Albus nodded as he headed towards the door, pausing slightly at the entrance, "Are you sure you're all right, though?"

Immediately, Snape stiffened and tensed, eyes flaring. "Stop prying, old man," Severus glared at him, clearly disliking it when others dug into his private life. "As I said before, I'm fine."

"I simply worry about you," Dumbledore smiled sadly at him, "I shall leave you to your own devices now, as I can see you want some space. Good-bye, Severus." And with that, he was gone out the door, leaving it slightly ajar behind him.

"Good-bye, Albus," Snape told the thin air, and then turned to look to where Harry had been.

He wasn't exactly surprised when he realized the ghost was no longer there. He raised a hand to his temple and sighed deeply.

But his eyes did not lie twice.

The ghost had appeared, one way or another, and he was fully intent on researching a rational explanation. And if that did not yield results, he would have no option other than go back to Azkaban to tell Harry to either say what he wanted or to shut the fuck up and stay in his past, where he belonged.

* * *

Thank you for reading! If you liked the chapter - or even if you hated it - please drop by a review! I love hearing from you guys, especially concerning your thoughtful theories and constructive commentary. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** I apologize for the delay and lack of beta-ing in this chapter. Since most of my week has been filled with stupid family reunions and other annoying festivities I don't quite enjoy, I haven't been able to get online since yesterday.

And another note for my constant reviewers who question what's to happen: **This fic will follow cannon**, and so, Sirius will NOT be freed prematurely nor will live people in the future die now. I also apologize for the slowness of the fic, and hope you guys will still continue to read it despite it's flaws.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to catch up with some much-needed sleep. -snores-

* * *

**Chapter 13 - **_A Lilt in Silence_

It had worked.

And now he knew why.

Or at least, he presumed to know how. It was a theory in progress, but he was quite sure he was headed in the right direction. During his latest out-of-body experience, clarity had once again surrounded him, parting the thick fog that had obscured his brain this past year of solitude. The first time the entirety of the vision had held a dream-like quality, a hazy view of what was happening before him, leaving him muddled and somewhat confused as to it's reality. But this time…

This time, it had certainly been real.

The Castle's voice had once again been with him, whispering gently in his ear, leading him by his metaphorical hand to where Snape was as it had done before. And unlike his previous endeavor where everything had been silent except for the Castle and his own thoughts, now he could hear and listen in to glorious and well-missed voices from his future as they bantered back and forth. He'd come to conclude that he was slowly regaining his senses; vision, voice and now hearing. Harry could only anticipate what would come—perhaps his mobility? Perhaps his ability to feel and smell and interact?

Oh, he knew not to let his spirits get too high. Dementors, no matter how common their effects had become to him over the years, remained the same. One could not build a permanent immunity to their charms, not really. Detaching oneself was efficient, but never healthy and never completely effective. You could only go so far in ignorance of your own state before it caught up to you.

But the experience had been enough to breathe life back into his battered, starved body and light up the candle of determination once more. Harry had always held onto the ideal that he had to survive because others needed him—he was a tool to destroy Voldemort, and that was his duty, which he would definitely complete before departing this world, no matter what. Yet now…now he could believe that there was something beyond this besides the prophecy.

For almost a year he'd been locked away in this dingy cell where all he had for company was his drool and chill of terrors beyond closed walls. For three, he'd had the familiar cold stones below him and his own barely sane conscience forcing him to go on. Harry entertained no ideals of escape like Sirius perhaps was, somewhere above him in some other cell. There was nothing to hold onto, after all. No magic, no animagus state, nothing.

Yet…

There was still hope.

He would get out, barely breathing but alive, damn it. And not just for some old prune's words of a half decade past, but for himself, and for those who could still perceive him, remember him, despite him being mired several years in some strange land, barred far enough from society to drive one mad.

Revenge was petty. The vengeance he desired so long ago had not ceased, but it was no longer his true ideal. It had been filed away when Snape had come, and was still lodged somewhere in his brain, perhaps waiting but no less there than it had been yesterday. No, now he would continue for himself. Selfish till the end, but he was human, and he was damned if he would allow this wallowed up piece of Hell to take that away from him.

Now that he'd established this within the confines of his own mind, he allowed himself a moment to ponder the reasonable logic behind all that had been happening. In truth, one could easily dismiss everything that had occurred as the delusions of a crazed prisoner caged one too many months alone. Harry himself would've done so, would've told himself this was all a lie he'd created for himself…had that nudging entity inside of him not told him to stop trying to change it—this was all too real.

Harry was in no condition to ponder the credibility of his own spiritual travels, but he was no more entitled to a promising answer than the reason why he was still alive at the moment, as he had not fed for several days now. Magic would sustain a wizard longer than a regular muggle, that much was known, but how long could this magic last? And in such a place, to boot. There was no explanation for this beyond his own motivation, and that wasn't very convincing, either.

Because of all these complete and mind-boggling abnormalities, he would not question the _hows_ and the _whys_ and whatever else anyone would stop to ask before plunging in headfirst into something as unexplainable as this. He would just plow on thoughtlessly as he'd always done, go on and keep trudging until his mind caved and gave in. That was the way he was; a Gryffindor to the bone, no matter how Slytherin the old hat insisted he was.

He could almost hear Snape's biting words, sneering a _Reckless Gryffindor _before gliding off to torture someone else.

Yes, he could remember now. Quite clearly, in fact. That was how he'd managed to jump all the way to Hogwarts, after all. Thinking of the old Snape—the Snape from the future, the harsh Potions Master that never failed to snipe and shoot Harry down—did not bring him bitterness. Nor did it bring him the usual nostalgia. It merely excited him; the memories, that is, not the feeling associated with the moment.

Thinking of Snape was the easiest of all, and so he did it quite constantly. He supposed it was because he'd had recent contact with the now-youthful man, making it many times easier. He could picture Snape at any moment, while on the other hand, recalling the rest of those people lingering in his mind resulted frustratingly hard.

Imagining the others from his past was rather difficult due to the fact that he hadn't seen them in so long—their smiles faded from his memory, tainted by the Dementors. Plus, they were children right now, little boys and little girls that didn't belong to him anymore. He had no right to barge in on them, had no connection to them like he did with Snape. Finally, the mood Azkaban had instilled in him did not allow him to remember anything remotely cheery, but it did grudgingly agree to let him recall dark memories, memories associated with negative feelings.

And so, Snape it was.

Which was exactly why he'd once again ended up appearing before Snape.

It hadn't taken him long to realize memories were the key to this bizarre form of travel. He merely had to concentrate on a particular experience with said individual, somehow twist the Dementor's cold bite into a rather formidable metaphorical spring, and allow his spiritual essence to fly out of his body temporarily and seek the one he remembered, being Snape. The last step was harder than it sounded, to tell the truth.

Sometimes his attempts would fail, and he would immediately feel a horrible portkey-like feeling of being forcefully shoved a very long distance in a very short time, back into his body. In fact, this was the end result of his endeavors many more times than not.

But Harry was patient.

He knew he could do it—he merely had to locate Hogwarts (which wasn't much of a feat as it practically gravitated Harry to it by itself), then find Snape. The latter was very difficult, for the man was usually hidden amongst the various magical presences floating about inside of Hogwarts. And even at the times he did locate the man, he couldn't seem to contact him. It appeared that only when Snape was thinking of him could he materialize, and despite all odds, the fleeting moments were quite impossible to catch.

Even if he was researching Harry's appearance, it seemed Snape was quite keen on not thinking of Harry at all, making the Azkaban inmate's quest all the more difficult.

The Castle itself was a very helpful magical entity when it came to his spiritual visits; it did not act hostile at his usually unexpected intrusions and would, when available, hold him by the hand and help Harry take semi-translucent shape by lending some of its stored magic. It didn't supply him long, however, almost gently urging him to find a way to remain by himself rather than rely on it all the time.

The Castle was strange, and communication with it was another unexplainable task in itself, but it was kind and kept his presence a secret, so Harry accepted it. He also took care to thank it when he felt its magic near him, knowing it could understand him in its own way.

Despite all of this support, it did take him a damn long time to talk to Snape again. When he finally did though, it yielded a rather…enlightening conversation.

° ° °

Snape had vigorously researched the possibility of a spirit of a live person appearing before another in the library the remaining part of the summer and a week into the school year, but all he found were references to ghosts of dead people, individuals with rare bonds that had to be performed beforehand or the typical psychological books rambling about paranoid schizophrenia. Nothing held in the supposedly rich library yielded fruitful results, and, seeing as the ghost had not appeared again this last month, he'd all but abandoned his quest.

He'd actually pretty much re-convinced himself it was simply a radical case of post-traumatic stress disorder from spending nine months on Earth's worst prison; after all, it wasn't all that remarkable that his broken mind had decided to cling onto the image of his Azkaban companion in order to deal with reality. With this rational explanation in mind, Snape hadn't spared a thought to Harry in a while. Or at least, that was what he was trying to convince himself of.

It was difficult not to ponder the repeated appearances of a man that, by all means, shouldn't be popping up unexpectedly. Either Harry was dead—which he was not, if the Azkaban records were anything to go by—or Snape was simply going insane. And he refused to believe this; especially not at the moment, where Albus was constantly hovering concernedly over his shoulder, as if waiting for him to break. He admitted, solely to himself, that he was quite afraid of loosing his job and favourable position if this little secret was discovered.

Snape wouldn't be surprised if he were thrown back in Azkaban the moment he was fired. And that definitely wasn't on his to-do list.

"Five minutes," Snape's voice rang out coldly, startling those students that weren't even remotely closed to finished. A wave of groans would've flowed through them had they all not been quite informed as to what would occur if they allowed said mutters to come out of their mouths. All the first-years had heard the terrible tales from those above them that told of the Potion Master's unforgiving cruelty, and weren't quite ready to test the man's fury. Instead, they all just hurried up and hoped to Merlin that they'd get at least a passing grade for their troubles.

Meanwhile, Snape was viciously scrawling a large 'D' on top of a sixth-year essay, his thin lips curling into his habitual smirk. _Idiotic children_, he thought as he scribbled out venomous comments on the sides of the failed paper. Did they never pay attention in his class? Of course, by now he knew better than to wonder. It was impossible to teach any of these brats anything, no matter how hard one tried.

"Professor?" a Ravenclaw's voice pierced his thoughts, her frightened whisper urgent and annoying. "Professor Snape!"

"_What_?" he finally snarled, looking up form his work.

The first-year squeaked and tried not to sob, "Sir, my p-potion…"

It was too late; the entire concoction exploded with brilliant bursts of red and green, splattering the child and her nearby companions with the thick goo. Luckily for them, the substance was harmless and simply hardened on impact rather than cause any damage. Snape sighed, closing his eyes and begging Merlin for patience.

"Miss…?" he began in his soft, dangerous tone, his black eyes boring into her own.

"Emmaraude, sir," the Ravenclaw said miserably, trying to wipe off the heavy goo and managing only to stick her fingers to her arm.

"Miss Emmaraude," Snape murmured silkily, "I do believe you have earned yourself a detention and fifty points from Ravenclaw for your incompetence. Now, get out of my sight before I decide on a harsher punishment."

"B-but s-sir! We don't—" she cried.

"_Now_, Miss Emmaraude. And another ten points for your refusal to do as I told you to."

In tears, the girl gathered her things and fled the room, sobbing. The rest of the class was wide-eyed and silent, staring at their teacher in fright.

"Well?" snapped the greasy-haired man, "May I remind you that you have less than thirty four seconds to hand in your assignment?"

The first-year class immediately went back to their work, hastily bottling up whatever they'd managed to complete of their Forgetfullness Potion.

"In the cupboard," Snape barked, "No labels, no grade."

Confused but trying to be speedy, two Hufflepuffs crashed together and spilled their potions onto the floor, miraculously missing each other. _Oh for the love of_, Snape thought harshly and stood up, swooping over to the two fallen boys. His hand snaked down upon the scruffs of their necks and wrenched them up from the floor, his eyes furious as he glared at the two quivering masses.

"I have a very big headache," he informed the class acidly, "And I will not tolerate any further displays of ineptitude. I am delighted to tell you that, due to your classmates' total lack of ability to control their own motor coordination, you all have an immediate zero on your projects. Dismissed." He let go of his hostages and stalked off, ignoring the cries of dismay from his class at his last word.

Suddenly, he pivoted on one foot and resumed glaring at the two unfortunate Hufflepuffs. "You two, stay behind."

The rest of the children scattered immediately, whispering between themselves as they exited the Potions class. The remaining individuals looked extremely nervous, one seemingly about to faint and the other pale as death. "Yes, sir?" the one on the left piped up uncertainly, after several minutes of silence had passed between them and Snape's glare had not abated.

"You will clean up your delightful mess," Snape spoke softly, "And then you will write an inch _thick_ essay concerning the dangers of running with possibly lethal objects at hand. I expect it no later than Friday."

Their faces fell with every word, but were smart enough not to argue. They quickly went to their task, muttering furiously between themselves; Snape allowed it, not wanting to incite his migraine further by barking out insults. He paced back to his desk, careful not to make much sound or risk doubling his headache. Sitting down, he eased back into correcting the Sixth year essays, wanting nothing more than to depart to his chambers and take a very long, uninterrupted nap. Preferably without nightmares.

"Professor," a small voice whispered closed to his ear.

Startled at being caught unaware, he jerked his head up and snarled out a "What is it?" The two Hufflepuffs, still on all fours scrubbing at the floor furiously, looked up and quivered in fear, their faces befuddled. "What?" he repeated sourly, glaring at them.

"S-sir," one of them ventured in confusion, "We didn't say anything."

"You better hope you didn't," Snape hissed, and slowly resumed his activities, his paranoia on high alert.

"Professor," the voice insisted again, coming from in front of him this time.

"_What_?" he roared, and then his voice died right in his throat as he saw what was before him. His eyes twitched and his frown deepened, ignoring the incredulous and more than slightly disturbed stares from the First-years. "Wait," he muttered, nodding at the air. Then, without glancing in the direction of the Hufflepuffs, snarled out a harsh "Dismissed."

Confused and frightened, the two boys dropped what they were doing, gathered their things and fled the room. They only began to whisper among themselves when they were sure they were out of earshot; but by then, Snape had no interest whatsoever in their childish complaints. The entirety of his attention was concentrated on the hazily floating ghost in front of him.

° ° °

"Come in, come in," Albus said cheerily, waving the hesitant boy in. "What is it, child?"

"Um, sir," the brown-haired Hufflepuff twisted the cuff of his robe nervously, "I just wanted to say…um…"

"Do not fret, m'dear," the Headmaster calmed him, outstretching his palm invitingly, "Candy?"

Stuttering a thank-you, the boy unwrapped the candy and ate it slowly, his eyes glued to the floor. "What is that you wanted to speak to me about, Mr Peterson?" Dumbledore began softly, his eyes twinkling with concern. "I am sure you must have something very important, to come all the way up here."

"Yes, sir," the Hufflepuff said, slightly more courageous now that the candy laced with a potent Calming Potion was in his system, "You see, Professor Snape…"

° ° °

"Good to see you too," was the first thing the blasted skeleton of a man said.

"What the hell are you," Snape stated bluntly, glaring at him.

The ghost smiled, and glanced around in an almost nostalgic fashion, "You're much like your old self, I see. The rooms haven't—I mean, won't—change much. Ah, this time paradox theory will drive me bonkers if I keep trying to say it right. I did miss this, you know, no matter how dreary it may be. Much nicer than my four walled confinement."

"I asked you a question, now answer," snarled the greasy-haired Potions Master, cutting off the young man before he could start rambling about some nonsense topic, "You cannot be Harry, because he was still locked up in Azkaban the last time I checked."

"Oh? You checked? I'm flattered!" the apparition laughed, his voice more alive than Snape had ever recalled, "Either I am still dreaming or you are, Snape, though I do assure you I am quite real. Aside from the obvious…" the ghost waved absently at his translucent body, "transportation defects. It's not easy forcing your spiritual essence out of your physical matter, y'know."

Snape's eye twitched, rising from his chair in order to stand levelly face-to-face with Harry's ghost. "Spiritual essence, you say? That is impossible."

"By all means, me being here should be impossible, but no one's complaining, eh?" the ghost appeared to sigh, his body flickering like a TV gone static. "Ah…I can't be here much longer. My body's all but dead when I'm away, so I can't be gone too long. It's really damn hard to appear here, I'll let you know. You keep your thoughts too closely guarded for me to pop up. Loosen up for me, okay? You should be grateful, since I only come to see you."

"Grateful?" Snape scoffed, sneering, "More like annoyed. I refuse to submit to my mind's crazed attempts to convince me of my madness, seeing as you are a figment of my rather twisted imagination."

"I wish I wish I were!" Harry pouted—so similar to the real Harry's pout it almost made Snape shiver—and his body flickered even more, "I'll be back again in a minute or so, but I really do need to get going. It was nice seeing you, Snape. I miss you, you know. Dead walls aren't very talkative, I'm afraid."

"Enough of this nonsense!" Snape roared, tearing his eyes away from Harry, "Stop haunting me or I will purposefully obliviate myself if it'll drive you off. Go away, Spirit, I can do nothing for you."

"I didn't expect you to," Harry's voice said softly, dimming as his image did. "I just wanted to see you."

"I definitely didn't!" Snape swiveled around again and snarled furiously, "Stay back in fucking Azkaban, where you belong!"

But by then, there was no one there except Albus at the doorway, staring at him sadly, a worried glimmer in his eye.

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Thanks for reading! If you liked it or you just want to complain about how God-damned crappy this fic is, drop a review - every word you post is written and appreciated. Your support is what drives me! 


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** Phew! Two months later and I finally updated! Sorry about that. I haven't written in a while, but I'm well onto finishing Chapter 18. I apologize for my lack of consistancy! I tend to suck at keeping promises, y'see. Un-betaed (unfortunately) so it may be rather incoherent...

Anywho, I hope you enjoy the chapter. More to come next week!

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**Chapter 14 - **_Painful Connection_

"I said I'm fine, Headmaster," Snape repeated tartly for what seemed like the billionth time, "Nothing is wrong with me."

"I never said that something was wrong with you, dear," Dumbledore spoke softly, "I'm just worried. Even the students are concerned."

"Well stop worrying, it's making me puke. And those brats just want to nag about me and my teaching methods, like everyone else seems to be doing lately. I'm _fine_, all right? Fucking _peachy_."

"Severus!" Albus said sharply, appalled at his young teacher's words, "Do not use such language."

"Oh I apologize, _Headmaster_," Snape snarled, standing up so fast he knocked the chair back, "I was not aware I was out of line. I shall dismiss myself, if it pleases you."

"No, it does not please me," Dumbledore said wearily, "Now sit back down, Severus, we must talk about this. So you say you've been seeing things?"

"Merlin's sake, Albus!" Snape exclaimed furiously, "I told you to drop it! I am seeing nothing. In fact, I'm all but fucking blind. Now may I take my leave?"

"Severus!" the Headmaster's voice rose, eyes no longer twinkling but dead serious, "I will not tolerate this blatant disrespect. Sit down or I will have to suspend you from your duties!"

Snape's voice died and he immediately paled, bowing his head slightly as he spoke in a subdued voice, "I apologize, Headmaster. It was not my intention."

"Oh Severus," Albus sighed regretfully, rubbing his temples, "I know it wasn't. Sit down…please."

He did as he was told, picking up the chair and straitening it soundlessly on the carpet. He sat down with his hands on his lap and his gaze plastered on the floor, knowing that he'd gone too far again. For a long time he'd tried to assure himself that Albus, after everything they'd gone through, would never abandon him. But, at moments like this, Snape realized that he was as expendable as the next chess piece, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Dumbledore was an amazing man—he was wise and powerful, yet fair. But he was mortal, and man. And all men were just as capable of kindness as they were of cruelty.

"I've heard more than one complaint from your department, but I did not call you here to speak to you concerning student's woes; that will come another day. I want to know what's happening to you, dear," Albus pleaded softly, "Please, talk to me."

His worry was evident, but Snape would not allow himself to believe in it. Raising his now-strengthened Occlumency shields, he closed off his face and his heart, knowing better than to trust. Calmly, the young man spoke to the floor. "There is nothing wrong, Headmaster. You merely caught me at a bad moment. For my display, I apologize; may I be excused, now?"

"No, Severus, not yet." Dumbledore said gravely, almost regretfully, "I cannot allow you to teach in the state you are in now."

"And what state is that, Headmaster?" Snape asked quietly, reigning in the urge to bristle in defense.

"You are experiencing loss of control, dear," Albus murmured sadly, "And it will not be long before the Board is alerted to your condition."

"Condition?" Snape bristled now, though he kept his voice level, "I am not insane, Headmaster. You know that."

"I do," Albus sighed, "But I am not adverse to the possibility of you experiencing some sort of traumatic effect after…after Azkaban, m'dear."

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Snape groaned, "Why has Azkaban suddenly become your favourite topic to hassle me with? I have been free for almost two years, Headmaster, and I thank you profoundly for that. Please…" he paused, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to beg, "Please, Albus. Just…just forget it, all right?"

"I cannot," Albus said with an air of finality, "And you know that very well. Now, speak Severus, please. I don't want to break your trust in me by doing something terrible, but you know I am capable of it."

This was the closest Dumbledore would ever get to a verbal threat, Snape knew, but he also knew that the Headmaster would indeed carry on with said threat if it was necessary. He didn't doubt for a moment Albus's sincerity, nor his guilt; the old man would probably regret his actions for a long time, but that wouldn't stop him from doing whatever he intended to do.

His fingers curled viciously into fists on his lap as he began, hating Albus for every second he was made to speak. "I had a cellmate, in Azkaban," he muttered monotonously, glaring a hole in the floor, "We…were companions. I thought I was rid of him but he shows up here now and then." He looked up desperately at the Headmaster, his eyes hard and pained, "But you must believe me, Headmaster. I am not crazy. It's just…stress. Please, don't send me away."

"Did he do anything…vile towards you, Severus?" Albus asked quietly.

Snape stared, not understanding. "What?"

"Did he rape you?" the Headmaster clarified softly.

"Merlin no!" Snape exclaimed, coming to Harry's defense, "The idiot did nothing more lethal than punch me back when I kicked him." He took a deep breath, still not believing the Headmaster had thought he'd been raped in prison. As if any of them had any time to be thinking of anything of the sort when they were locked up in a sea of soul-sucking monsters!

"Albus, I'm only disconcerted because I never expected to see him again. He was…a friend, and it…pained me to leave him behind," Snape ran a hand through his long hand, just as shocked at admitting it as Dumbledore was of hearing it, "But I managed and have continued to manage until recently, where he's been popping up constantly. It's just stress, Albus. I'm probably just experiencing side effects of prolonged insomnia. It is nothing, and I swear to you I won't allow it to interfere with my work anymore. Please just…just don't send me away…" he trailed off, allowing the curtain of hair to cover his face and hopefully his shame.

By nature, Snape despised to beg, and did not willingly give in to such weakness. But if degrading himself to the one man he trusted without the risk of publicity would allow him to keep Dumbledore's protection, he would plead with all he had.

"Severus, I would never dismiss you," Albus spoke painfully, "Oh dear, you know me better than that. I apologize for prying, as I know you hate it, but I must know. And perhaps you are not seeing things—perhaps this is a ghost of the man you know. Azkaban is a terrible place, and it has been some time since you last saw him—"

"Believe me, Albus," Snape chuckled darkly, "I thought the same thing. I have checked the records, and none of them report the death of any 'Harry'. He is still alive, I am sure of it."

"Oh Severus," Dumbledore sighed, "The Azkaban records are never right. Due to the constant shipping of new inmates and uncharted deaths of the old, there is no true 'record' of who still lives and who does not. The only way to prove this is by checking physically. I am sorry, but your friend is probably now gone and has merely remained behind."

"No," the Potions Master said, but his voice was unsteady, "He's not dead."

"I am sorry, dear. I truly am."

Snape stared at the floor, slightly befuddled. It made sense, but he could not bring himself to believe it. _Show no weakness_, his mind whispered to him. _And make a tactical retreat_. He could not afford to break down any further in front of his employer, definitely not if he wanted to avoid looking any more crazy than what he was entitled to.

"Headmaster," Snape asked quietly once again, allowing a blanket of coldness to envelop his words in order to mask the multitude of emotions bubbling below the surface, "May I be excused?"

Albus cast him a sad look, "Of course, dear. We shall speak of this some other time…tomorrow, you will be substituted by myself, until you feel more apt to teaching. Please consider what I have told you, Severus."

Snape had known it was coming. He did not look up. "As you wish," he muttered, stood up, and left the room with a noticeable slump on his shoulders. Albus sadly noted the distinct lack of personal flare that came with his Potion's Master's usual brisk exits, and sighed to himself once the man had left.

_Oh Severus_, he thought sadly, and bowed his head slightly. He absently touched the wall and wondered what he was going to do with the man.

° ° °

Snape rather liked his Potions classroom, Harry had discovered over the days of popping in unseen. Although his attempts at contact had always been unsuccessful until today, this did not mean he was not aware of what was going on with his once-companion. Almost half the time he managed to locate the slippery Potions Master, it was here, in his beloved habitat. Naturally, here was where he was waiting for the man to return, from wherever he'd left since their confrontation.

After their rather clashing conversation, Harry had once again needed to retreat back to his cold body within Azkaban for another burst of energy before he could return. Unlike his spiritual essence, his real limbs remained almost completely useless due to a severe lack of nutrition. Harry would've thought himself dead—and he a true ghost simply staring at his corpse—had he not been able to shift his deadened fingers a bit the last time he'd tried.

That was, unfortunately however, the only real indication that he wasn't just a left over piece of soul that hadn't managed to cross over to the 'other side'. It was difficult to believe oneself still alive in this eternal dark silence, but Harry was quite sure he could still feel the Dementors wandering about beyond his cell, and that was enough proof for him.

Indeed, once he'd regained whatever strength he had stored in his rather empty shell of a body, he'd again twisted the sort of magical emission the soul-sucking monsters seemed to project all the time and rocketed his spirit back to Hogwarts, greeting the rather tight-lipped Castle and settling himself comfortably in the corner of the Potion Master's classroom, awaiting the prodigal man's return.

_There he is_, Harry thought nimbly and floated over to Snape, where the man had slumped beside his desk. The pathway to appear was open, he immediately realized, now sort of familiar with the feel of the process. Snape was thinking about him, that much was obvious, and now all he needed with a little boost of power to take a semi-physical form…

_Help me_, he asked the Castle automatically, projecting the image of Snape and his intention to once again appear.

It had responded positively to the routine of 'respond and apply' so far, so it came as a surprise when the Castle simply emanated a short but very clear _No_.

_What_? Harry questioned, startled at the denial. _Why_?

_No_.

_He's right there_! Harry pleaded. _Please, just give me a little power and I'll handle it from there._

_No, child_.

What the hell! Harry wasn't one to argue these days, and was conscious enough that picking a grudge with a semi-sentient but no less powerful building wasn't the smartest of things to do, but he could not contain it. He didn't want to leave Snape and their first coherent conversation on the wrong end, especially not when his former cellmate was as strained as he was now. It could potentially ruin both their tentative friendship (however screwed it was at the moment, not to mention more than a little 'long distance') and his only connection to other living beings.

_Come on! For Merlin's sake, just lend me a bit of magic and I'll stop bothering you. You helped me before—why not now_?

_Child_, the Castle spoke with as much sharpness as a centuries-old building could muster. _I cannot House you_.

_House…? What? But I…_

Harry was more than a little confused. Although he'd never claimed to be able to understand the Castle's strange form of communication, he could usually understand Hogwart's intentions, if only vaguely.

_Look, I'm not seeking to be sorted or whatever you may think—_

_CHILD_. The Castle's voice was powerful, commanding more than just a little fear and respect, even if only resonating inside of his head._ The Keeper has spoken, and deems you a potential threat. Judgment decrees I cannot aid you._

Harry's rambling thought process fell short, barely noticing out of the corner of his eye that Snape had stood and was walking out of the room. The passage remained open, but without the Castle's help Harry did not know how he would take on a visible form. He could travel here easily enough, what with all the Dementor's constant magical activities unsuspectingly giving him the boost he needed to transport his spirit. But appearing—taking a tangible and visually stimulating appearance commanded more power than he could handle alone.

_Potential threat_? He half-squawked mentally. _I'm not going to harm anybody, I swear it_! _You've seen my intentions, haven't you? I want nothing but to speak with Snape, just a minute of conversation! Please!_

_I am sorry_, the Castle spoke with what seemed like genuine regret.

Begging a building for access may have seemed rather silly to anyone else, but at the moment it seemed like the only logical thing to do. If he lost the Castle's support, he knew he would never accomplish his ideas for communication. And, to make matters worse, he was beginning feel the insistent tugging of his body back in Azkaban again, more urgently than before. In the back of his head, he knew that if he stayed away too long, whatever living remained in his soulless body would decay on its own. He had to go back, the sooner the better.

But…

Snape had left the room by then, heading in the direction of what appeared to be his chambers. This was his last chance…his last chance to ever speak to the man again if the Castle now forbade him entrance.

Harry made his decision.

He floated quickly behind Snape, catching up with the man swiftly. Not knowing exactly what would happen, he flew into the retreating man and _reached_.

° ° °

Snape had returned dejectedly to his classroom, avoiding any contact whatsoever. He'd taken more than a few shortcuts he'd discovered in his youth from pursuing his childhood enemies, arriving at his abandoned haven within a few minutes. Lacking the strength or desire to stalk in his usual manner, he'd simply trudged over to his desk and fallen heavily on his chair, putting his head into his hands.

Life had never been fair to him, and he never expected it to be.

Since the moment he was conceived he already had someone who utterly despised his existence, and wished nothing more than to end it short. Only because of his mother's resolute denials to abortion had he been spared, and not even much then. Growing up in a home where any mention of magic by either his part or his mother's ended up in violence due to his father's apparent phobia of it, he'd always been used to unfairness.

His father, bitter and twisted by his raging jealousy of the supernatural talents that lay tucked within his wife and child he himself did not contain, took it out on his own blood to satisfy his own lack of confidence. His mother, too weak and too in love with the fucked up muggle, never fought back. The idea of a fair life had been a joke since the day he was born, and his own karma impeded him from ever even considering the possibility of such a notion.

Thus, when Dumbledore had thrown him aside as easily as he had, he was not surprised. The reasoning had been justified without the need for words, and Snape did not question the order's authority.

Still, no matter how practiced he was in the art of ignoring just how fucked up his life was, it did not mean the unfairness did not hurt.

And oh God it hurt.

Essential to his chosen career, Snape was never one to trust. Nor did he care much about what anyone thought of him. But when he did accept another, when he did allow himself to smirk a true smile…when it all predictably came crashing down, he could not stop the bitterness clawing at his heart. It fucking _hurt_ and God he was writhing on the floor now—

Wait a second.

_OH FUCKING SHIT_. The pain was real—it was flowing through all the pores in his body, his nerves exploding in a symphony of unified agony. Years of soundless suffering under the _Crucio_ were the only reason his vocal chords did not react and remained mute. His eyes were closed but he could feel the stones he was jerking on spasmodically and he could understand that this did not come from the Unforgivable curse, although the sensation was similar.

And then, all of a sudden, it stopped. The pain was gone.

"What," Snape croaked out to himself, and shakily went to his feet. The first thing he did was look around the corridor, and was relieved to notice that no one had seen his strange episode. Once that had been taken care of, he resumed his pondering of just _what the hell had happened_. His body, trained with years of self-control, did not randomly burst into pain without a reason.

'…_Snape_?'

The Potions Master whipped around, hissing out a sharp, "Who's there?"

'_Hey I'm sorry I didn't mean to_—'

"Show yourself!"

'_Believe me I would, but the darn Castle isn't_—'

"_Who the fuck is there_?" Snape snarled out.

Silence.

Disturbed, Snape took a deep breath and banged his head against the wall once, twice, firmly. The stars popping in front of his face berated his rashness, but he was sure he was now acting more consciously, the mild pain centering him. Another look about the corridor revealed nothing, and he allowed himself to quickly stalk over to his chamber entrance, mumble the password, and enter. Once the statue that guarded his room had sealed the entrance again, he allowed himself to slump against the wall and stare blankly ahead.

"Who's there?" He asked again, calmly.

Silence.

"Who's there?"

Nothing.

"I know you're still here."

'_You're bleeding_.'

It was then that Snape realized that there was still a lingering pain concentrating on his right hand, and lifted it up to his face. The sleeve slipped back and revealed that the small scars littering about his arm from the exploding-wand incident in Azkaban had opened up again, and were cheerfully smearing his clothes and dripping blood onto the floor.

"So I am," he mumbled, feeling very tired. "Who are you?"

'_You know who I am. I'm sorry for doing this_.'

"Harry," Snape acknowledged, "I guess I really am crazy, then."

'_No you aren't. Well, if you are, then it doesn't matter. I mean_…'

"No, it's all right," Snape said easily, though his voice had not risen above a whisper since he'd begun talking, "Albus was right, too, I suppose. Aren't you dead?"

'_I certainly hope I'm not. I don't think so, anyway, not yet. I'm in Solitary, you see, so I'm not always sure_.'

"Solitary?" Snape asked conversationally, wandering over to his bathroom, duly noting that the voice did not fade away even when he splashed cold water on his face and rinsed his still-bleeding arm.

'_Yeah. Um, eighth level, I think_.'

"Oh that's right," Snape said, "Azkaban, I presume?"

'_Of course. Where else would I be_?'

"If you are still in Azkaban, as you say, then how are you here?" He carefully wrapped a summoned bandage around his oozing arm, irritatingly noticing that he felt as if the wooden shards were still embedded in his skin, when he was quite sure he'd removed all of them after the incident. "Or, why are you speaking to me?"

'_Well, I would go into details, but I have to go, urgently. If I stay here much longer, I may as well be a ghost. I'm sorry about freaking you out earlier, Snape, I really am._'

"That's fine," Snape said, though it was completely the opposite. "Will you be back?"

'_As soon as I can. You aren't crazy, all right? I really am real_.'

"Hm. I don't care, either way. Weren't you leaving?"

'_I was. Good bye Snape, and take care of yourself._'

"You too, I suppose, if you are still alive."

But the voice had quieted, and nothing replied back. Snape looked at his tired, sunken face in the mirror, feeling and not feeling at the same time. Everything that had happened hung thick on his shoulders, weighing him down. Feelings fueled a wizard, and allowed him to command magic; accidental magic occurred when someone, usually a child, had a moment of uncontrolled emotion.

_You can be just as cruel as you can be kind_.

He wasn't exactly surprised when the mirror shattered to dust before his empty gaze.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Drop by a review if you have some spare time; it's truly appreciated! 


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** Once again, this fic could not be what it is without the aid of my two betas. Both of you are amazing! Thank you so very much!

This chapter introduces a few aurors, who will be important to the plot (Benjy Fenwick, Raff McKinnon and Crow Perks). They are all canon characters (or related to them) since I highly dislike inventing OCs in fandom :) Do the last names sound familiar? They should xD Cookies to those who recognize them!

I also wrote Albus here in a way that will hopefully cast a lighter shadow on his tainted character. I love him very much, and I always feel sad when I read or get reviews bashing him. He deserves some love, people!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thanks!

* * *

**Chapter 15 - **_New Habitat_

Albus Dumbledore's face was distinctly pale in the moonlight, his fathomless azure eyes lost in a pool of thought. The candles flickering on his desk and scattered across the circular room cast a warm golden glow on everything the light touched, illuminating a slim stack of papers that lay carelessly strewn across the polished wood. Alone in his office with no one to impress or pull up a mask for, his form was slightly bent and he truly looked his age, gnarled fingers weary with battle caressing the window pane with a gentle touch.

He would be celebrating his hundred forty-third birthday this December. A long life, he told himself reasonably—a long, prosperous life.

Still, he could not yet rest.

Despite all facades he donned with a crowd, despite all the masks he set up to manipulate those who were loyal to him, he was but a man. It was horribly tiring to keep up his cheerful pace, and now, with his young spy in such a state, he was not sure he could hold up. Of course, no matter what doubts crossed his mind through the night, in the morning he would always awake with a fresh slate and firm hand.

If a stranger ever managed to force themselves into Dumbledore's mind and peer about his thoughts and memories, he would've immediately recoiled back in shock. Albus was a cunning, manipulative old man who may remorse his actions, but would carry them out anyway. But this did not mean he was evil—quite the opposite, really. Everything he did, and this was true, was for the benefit of others. Without a blink, he would overlook his own feelings in order to carry out the ideal.

This was one of the many reasons that separated him far from regular society. He was a man of action, a man of planning, and when these plans fell apart he would immediately begin scheming up a newer, flawless one. Regular citizens could not think the way he did; they simply could not fathom the idea of manipulating others for a future benefit. It was the way he was, and it was hard to change. In times like these, though, people like him were necessary—just like individuals like Severus were needed, just like expendable peons were needed.

It was simple, cold logic.

Albus did not seek to justify his personal actions beyond insinuating that he was well aware of what he was doing, and thus kept his true machinations hidden from his companion's eyes. But in the end, everything he did was for the good of everyone. He did not fancy himself a martyr, nor maintained any sort of desire to be seen as such, but he wholeheartedly believed that all the small evils he carried out were for the eventual benefit of the Light.

He had a large heart, yes, but filled with a coldness few would've expected from the Headmaster.

"Fawkes," the old man spoke softly, breaking the silence as the phoenix crooned back quietly from its perch, his fiery plumage glowing a slight reddish tone in the dark. "Come, my dear friend, I am in need of your guidance…"

Obediently the beautiful bird flew over and landed gently on the Headmaster's shoulder, carefully digging his powerful claws into his companion's robes as to not hurt the man. Fawkes was Dumbledore's long-lasting companion, and only he had seen the Headmaster at his very worst; but the bird had also seen him at his best, and that was what counted. The phoenix was willingly bonded with Albus, a permanent link that would remain until the Headmaster died.

Fawkes trilled a soft melody, nuzzling Dumbledore's cheek with affection.

"What am I to do, Fawkes?" Albus murmured, reaching over and bringing forward the bundle of documents that had lain messily on his desk for the better part of the day, the faint writing almost impossible to see in such light. However, if one's eyes were as sharp as the Headmaster's even in the darkness, the contents clearly proclaimed a long-winding chart listing the arrivals and "departures" of a numerous amount of individuals.

The phoenix crooned, gently leaning down Dumbledore's shoulder and pecking the papers insistently.

"These are the copies of Azkaban records I found in Severus's office," Albus explained to the bird, as the phoenix had been absent on a journey for the better part of the day and had missed most of the happenings.

The old man gently traced a thumb over the names, eyes sad with the knowledge that he had seen many of those listed grow and turn Dark during his time as Headmaster. It was a terrible thing to witness, and seeing them so carelessly written as if their lives meant nothing pained the old man greatly, making him feel shame and regret.

"I am particularly intrigued as to how he obtained them, but I know better than to ask," he cracked a small fond smile at the thought of his young spy, but it faded soon enough with the implications.

He mourned every life sacrificed, every life lost to Death's arms or the Dark's all-too-willing embrace. Every single one of their faces lay imprinted across his memory, placed aside during the day but allowed to resurface during moments such as this, as so the children and men who died or were ensnared by wickedness would never be forgotten. They deserved so much more, deserved a much better life, every single one of them—at least a more honorable, dignified death than the terrible ones so many suffered.

Many told him he was too lenient, gave one too many second chances. But he believed that every single soul was redeemable, and would do everything in his power to make them see this. _No one _was hopeless case. Not a single one. But sometimes, he knew, it was better for some to be removed, lest they do more harm than good. Judging them, condemning them to a fate he had no true right to declare…_a Judge of Death_…

This was one of his many burdens.

"There are several men with the name Severus gave me," Albus continued, reading off a few highlighted entries out loud. "Harold O. Jenkins, Harry Lee Jonas, Robert Harry Jonathan, Harold Mortimer…" the old man paused, "What do you think of this list?"

Fawkes stared thoughtfully at the page, before nibbling the old man's ear.

"So many young men, now so old and weary," Albus spoke sadly as he petted Fawkes' golden red plumage, "This world is a beautiful place, but sometimes it is so cruel."

The phoenix glanced at his companion but did nothing, knowledgeable black eyes revealing naught but the reflection of the candles still flickering insistently on the desk.

"Severus insisted his Harry was alive," Albus revealed quietly, rolling up the parchment swiftly, "And there is no doubt about it now. Hogwarts informed me of a spirit's intrusion today and its persistent coming and goings; so far the relative dates have coincided with Severus's change. What do you think?"

Fawkes trilled curiously, and Dumbledore understood the question. He smiled, "A remarkable achievement, I agree. Hogwarts was kind enough to explain me the general mechanics of this young Harry's travels, as far as it knows." He patted the warm stone walls of his office fondly, "Impressive, especially for a young man in such an environment. Such dedication is so rare, these days."

The phoenix butted Albus's silver mane insistently and took to the air, gliding back to his perch.

"Ah, yes, I understand, my dear friend." Albus chuckled gently, and outstretched his palm, "Lemon drop?"

Fawkes imitated an impressively human-sounding snort but gobbled up the small muggle treat complacently, trilling in pleasure. The fiery bird shared his companion's taste for sweets, it seemed.

"His crime consists two murders and charges of using the Unforgiveables, this young Harry James. Seven years worth of imprisonment; he's served three so far. I wonder…is that the entirety of his deeds?"

Fawkes did not reply. Dumbledore did not seek to ask again; after all, there was no need to know, not really.

"Hogwarts informed me of the hazards to both the child and his condition if he were allowed to continue his endeavors," he continued, voice grave, "And so I did not allow him passage again. Severus is best to remain in the dark for the moment, I think, or he will act irrationally. I sent a letter to Azkaban a few hours ago via a contact, requesting an audience with the young man. Knowing the process, it'll take weeks—months!—even without the guaranteed suspicion. After all, as far as anyone knows, the young man hasn't had a visit since he arrived." Dumbledore paused hesitantly, seeking reassurance, "Do you think Severus will forgive me?"

Fawkes looked up from his treat and gazed at Albus trustingly, singing a beautiful line.

"I do hope so. I don't want to give him false hope…the poor boy has had enough, I believe. We can only pray the Ministry won't look too much at the request, and will allow the audience." The old man sighed heavily, "Children have it the worst, these days. I feel so terribly old."

Fawkes trilled an indignant note, earning himself a delighted chuckle from his companion.

"Oh Fawkes, I did not mean it that way! You are only a few centuries older than myself, do not worry so much. You are still young for your kind! You are beautiful as ever, my dear, I assure you." Dumbledore ran a calloused hand through the phoenix feathers, smiling tenderly. Fawkes merely sang soothingly, accepting the apology.

The phoenix thought Albus' cheeky grin made his companion look infinitely younger, and wished his wizard would never stop smiling.

°°°

Light _was_ warm, Harry realized numbly—and it fucking _hurt_.

Eyes burning from the radical change in lighting but too weak to fight, Harry allowed himself to be dragged by the aurors, having no other real alternative. A year or more of no sounds and no sight had practically rendered him a blind, mute and deaf rat. Lethargy and muscle death due to immobility for an elongated amount of time ensured he wouldn't ever be able to move farther than a step without help or months of rehabilitation-issued exercise. And, seeing as he was still in Azkaban, his future looked no more hopeful than yesterday.

"Merlin," one of the aurors dragging him breathed audibly, "How is this guy even alive?"

Any muscle he may have still had before he'd been thrown in his damned Solitary cell was now completely gone. Reminiscent of the tortured prisoners of World War II, Harry was quite literally all bone. His tattered, unchanged clothing was nothing more than decaying rags, revealing a body so malnourished that every single contour of his ribcage was starkly visible. His stomach sank deeply, almost disappearing into his horribly visible backbone. His hips were jutting out sharply, his legs and ankles so thin he most certainly would've been able to slip through the narrow Azkaban bars had he been able to move.

His cheekbones had sunken in so deep he looked more like a skull than ever before, with only a very thin layer of translucently white skin to cover it. His eyes were also sunken in, his brilliantly green eyes dulled and narrowed to a squint due to the intense torchlight burning into his retina. His hair had fallen out in most places, and what remained of it lay matted in an impossible snarl upon his head.

Harry was the living equivalent of a walking skeleton—and not even then, for he couldn't walk worth a shit.

"He better be," the other spoke from above Harry's head, wrinkling his nose at the terrible smell emanating from the cell they were now abandoning. "Or we're _all_ in big fucking trouble," he mumbled quietly, more to himself.

One might've wondered how his spiritual essence had retained his pre-Solitary Azkaban look when seen by Snape in Hogwarts, if his real body was as battered as this. Harry would've simply had to respond that that was how he remembered himself. Having not seen a mirror in more than a year, he was not yet aware of how terrible he truly looked now, and thus his spiritual image had not been altered.

"What about the Dementors?" the first one asked in a hushed voice, weary of the silence around them, careful not to let Harry's incredibly bony and unresisting wrist slip from his slightly sweaty grasp, "No matter how useless and dead this…_guy_ looks, I don't want to leave any of his hands free in case we're attacked by the few that haven't left yet."

"They shouldn't come near us," the second auror spoke confidently, patting three tightly corked bottles in his belt with one hand before readjusting his grip on Harry's shoulder, "We got three good _Patroni_ plus those new Wizard pills, in case we're jumped. The new kid's coming around to help us soon, too. We'll be fine."

The aurors had eventually taken pity on Harry's guttural but relatively silent moans of pain due to the strain dragging him was causing his already overtaxed joints, and had levitated his battered, starved body the rest of the way. Harry was much too confused to thoroughly consider what was happening, though he vaguely entertained himself with the idea that the seven years had already passed and he was being freed. His wistful notions were thrown to hell, however, when the aurors paused outside a considerably nicer-looking cell (if compared to the shit that was his former one in Solitary) on Level Six and opened up the rusty doors with a terribly loud screech.

"_Holy Merlin_!" a new, much younger voice gasped from Harry's right, "How the hell is this man alive, Benjy?"

"Beats me, Raff," the second auror—'Benjy'—muttered close to Harry's ear, "Doesn't weigh a fuck, neither."

"I say give it a week and he's dead, at this rate," The first spoke pessimistically, "And then we're all in deep shit. Prisoners shouldn't be in Solitary more than a month, and this kid's been in there for a year, if the records hold any merit—and if he dies and the Rights people get hold of the story…"

"I wouldn't want to know the outcome, either, Crow…" Benjy sighed, shifting his grip slightly.

"You boys got any trouble?" another new voice drawled from the cell in front of Harry's apparent new one. "I can take care of the new kid. Jes' hand 'im over and I'll take real good care of him." A yellow-toothed grin was enough to send shivers up and down the three auror's spines.

"In your dreams, Six Sixty-five," the auror called Crow snarled, referring to the prisoner by his cell's number due to lack of knowledge of his name. "This here's a top-priority prisoner, and he isn't about to become your pretty little whore."

"Aw, you wound me," the prisoner smirked lazily, not at all offended as he slipped his thin arms between the bars, "Top priority, eh? What's pretty little Skull Kid there doing down here, then?"

"Shut up!" the young auror, Raff it seemed, yelled indignantly, "That's none of your—"

"Shut it, Raff," Benjy hissed, "Don't get into fights with these sunnova bitches, you hear?"

"Hey, hey, it was just getting to the good part!" Sixty-five crowed, "Wasn't that so, _Raff_?"

"Close that little trap of yours, Sixty-five," Crow said sharply, "Or I'll _Stupefy_ you enough to last the rest of the day."

"Only till today, darlin'? I'd bang you all night long!"

"_STUPEFY_!" Raff roared angrily, but Sixty-five ducked too quickly and the bolt of red flashed harmlessly over his head.

"My _gramma_ shoots loads bigger than that!" the prisoner howled in such a way that his words seemed dirty, grinning from ear to ear. "Ain't that so—"

"_Stupefy_," Benjy stated rather icily, and his spell ran true. 'Sixty-five' dropped like a sack, unconscious. He turned and placed a heavy hand on the younger recruit's shoulders, speaking seriously, "Raff, don't let them get to you. You harm a prisoner, and you can get into deep shit with all the Rights stuff going on these days."

Raff's face was red, and said nothing. Realizing belatedly that they'd dropped Harry and hadn't been watching him since they'd started the little argument, all three of them swiveled around and immediately began looking frantically for their prisoner. It didn't take more than a second to spot the skeleton—he was laying exactly where they'd dropped him, face down. A pool of drool had started to form about his mouth, sunken eyes half-lidded and distant.

"Fuck," Crow groaned, "Help me carry him in, guys."

With all the three of them carrying a pile of bones that probably weighed nothing more than eighty or so pounds, the prisoner was quickly set in and dumped on his cot. Summoning the food bowl laying abandoned in the corner of the room, they placed it near him in case the terribly skinny prisoner decided he was hungry. Eyeing the skeleton figure, Benjy doubted the poor bastard had enough energy in him to move even the slightest bit.

_He probably isn't sane enough to string two thoughts together, either_, he noted distastefully, scouring the prisoner's clothes and carefully casting _Tergeo_ on the drool that had begun to slip out of his open mouth and a quick severing charm for the excessive hair and beard, vanishing the mess. _Why did the Headmaster want us to keep _this_ guy alive, out of all the relatively saner prisoners_?

Well, it was not his place to question.

Benjy Fenwick had been there when the Order of the Phoenix was established, and was proud to be known as one of its first members. So many of them had fallen, and of those who survived the First War, few had decided to continue fighting. He was of those few, and wished nothing more than to prove himself worthy of his desire to continue battling the Dark, even after their apparent defeat. Headmaster Dumbledore had been kind enough to ensure him a steady pay and remain a loyal member of the Order, despite its disintegration after the War. He was also a high-ranked auror, making many of his missions simpler due to his numerous connections in the Ministry.

It helped to be well-liked, after all.

Raff, short for Raphael McKinnon, was a relatively new member to the aurors and nephew to the late Marlene McKinnon, a brilliant founding Order member who had died in the late seventies alongside her whole family. Raff had been but a terrified teenager when he'd lost his entire line, living as the sole survivor to a horrible massacre. Embittered, he'd sought single-mindedly to become an auror and had indeed succeeded, whereas his connection with Marlene had led him to a job as the newest—_and youngest_, Benjy realized, the kid being barely a day over twenty—Order recruit.

The last auror was Crodon 'Crow' Perks, and although he wasn't in the Order, he was connected to Dumbledore through some distant cousin or whatnot and had been accepted as Benjy's companion as a means of deviating any suspicion of their mission here in Azkaban from other Order members themselves. Not that Crow knew about the mission, or his part in it. Fenwick wasn't exactly jumping at the chance to reveal it, nor did he think of doing so ever.

Oath of Secrecy, and all that jazz.

All Perks knew was that they were transferring a prisoner from Solitary to Six-Level, and making sure that if the guy was still alive, he'd remain so. "_Wouldn't want any Wizard-Rights people complaining about inhuman treatment_," was the reason he'd been given. He'd accepted easily enough, barely needing to be prodded into agreeing by Benjy and Raff. Crow had never been down to the lowest level of Azkaban, after all, and wondered how it was like. Now he was beginning to regret that curiosity something fierce.

The three of them were good acquaintances from before and were relieved that they had been stuck together on Azkaban duty. Crow still wasn't all that thrilled about the two weeks they had to spend here, but his mood had been improving with the thought that at least he'd have familiar companions.

Until now, that is.

"He'll starve," Raff muttered pessimistically, "He's not going to move."

"Oy," Crow snapped his fingers in front of the ragged prisoner, "Can you hear me in there? Blink if you can."

Harry's eyes blinked twice slowly, eyes still squinting from the light though it was considerably dimmer here in the corner. _It's funny_, he thought slowly as his eyes adjusted. _You never realize how fucked up you are until you can see those that look better than you_.

"He can hear you," Benjy nodded, satisfied. "You thirsty, Harry James?"

Harry froze at the sound of his name, but slowly forced himself to relax. _They're being too kind_, he thought suspiciously. He may as well enjoy it while it lasted, he realized, because no one was going to help him after this. And even after what seemed like months of not eating or drinking and still staying alive, Harry knew he was at his limits. Magic exhausted from constant trips to Hogwarts and body ruined by the conditions he was living in, he may as well have been a corpse only recognizable as alive due to his slow, laboured breaths.

_Don't kick the gift horse in the mouth_, Harry told himself wisely. _At least not until the Greeks start pouring out_.

He blinked twice again, and winced when the youngest auror came forward and pried his stiff jaw open.

"Careful, Raff," Benjy said lowly, "Don't want to rip his jaw off, now do we?"

Raff scowled, but held Harry's face more gently. Crow came forward with the water bucket, frowning at what little remained. "Swallow slowly," the man instructed briskly, "And don't drink too fast or you'll end up sick."

Harry blinked his acceptance, and greedily sipped at the water. Once he was relatively satisfied, he closed his mouth and the bucket was removed from his lips. Easing his eyelids closed, Harry felt drowsy again, a terrible headache rising to his temples. He groaned quietly, gritting his teeth from the pain.

"Why…?" he rasped out with all the effort he had in him, and coughed wetly after doing so.

Benjy eyed the skeleton of a man and glanced at Crow through hooded eyes, knowing this was not the time to reveal why. Crow was a good man, a good auror with a three-year old daughter; he could be trusted with many things. But this was a request of silence directly from Dumbledore himself, and he'd be damned if he broke his Oath of Secrecy.

"Orders from higher ups," Raff shrugged, surprising Benjy by his quick reply.

_Well well,_ the older auror thought with a mental grin. _The kid didn't exactly lie, did he_? _Smart lad_.

"Yeah, well, orders or not—this level's giving me the creeps," Crow muttered sourly, "And prince charming over there won't take long to wake, knowing him. I don't want him cawing out that we're giving preferential treatment or else we'll have the whole lot of 'em on our heads."

"You forget most of them are insane," Benjy noted, waving in the general direction of the hall were they could hear a crazy man humming rather loudly, "I doubt they'd care much. But you're right. Besides, it's getting late." He paused, and nodded at Harry, though the prisoner couldn't see him because his eyes were closed. "We'll be back tomorrow, all right? Food's right beside you, in case you grow hungry."

"Let's get out of here," Raff said, and they needed no more prompting. Closing the heavy rusted cell door behind them, they walked off quickly and headed towards the Azkaban Prison Guard's break room, where hot chocolate and warm coffee were served on a regular basis for tired aurors. Their shift was just about up, anyway.

None of them found it strange they hadn't bumped into any Dementors along the way.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Drop by a review if you liked it :) I really appreciate it! 


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** Phew! Another chapter in time for the deadline! Everyone please go thank my two amazing betas - **Tsurai no Shi** and **Cessations**. This chapter is dedicated to all of you loyal readers who've stuck with me so far! Every single review has been read and cherished - thank you so much!

I hope you enjoy this extra-long 5,000 word chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 16 - **_Grim Authority_

"Good morning, dear," Albus greeted Snape quietly outside his rooms, startling the man slightly. "You are up rather early today." Severus hadn't heard the old man coming, and that put him on his guard. Almost no one could sneak up on him now—and those who did never got the chance to do so again. However, Dumbledore seemed to be the persisting exception.

"Headmaster," Snape acknowledged emotionlessly, keeping his eyes down in order to avoid the old man's prodding gaze.

"Severus, why don't you come and eat in the Great Hall with us?"

Snape was still drowsy; having slept only when he'd downed a Dreamless Potion after long hours of tossing and turning, he wasn't in the most kind of moods. He'd also had the misfortune of falling asleep with his clothes on due to his wearied state, and had woken up with button-shaped indents buried in his chest of where his coat had dug into his skin. The memory of the day before was still fresh on his mind and his embarrassment at almost breaking down had been enough to erect the largest of walls between him and the world in order to protect himself. Even a powerful Legilimens like Albus would have trouble _prodding_ his barriers in his defensive state.

Besides, he had reasons to keep his mind closed from any outside interference. And not only because of yesterday—not that hearing voices besides your own inside your head was the most ideal situation get caught attempting to explain, either. All were clear signs of insanity or an exterior force conversing inside of your head, and neither boded very well for him or his career. He intended to make the latter impossible and hope that the former remained simply a fear rather than a reality.

He was _not_ crazy, damn it.

"No, Headmaster," Snape said as respectfully as he could muster, "I apologize but I must be going. Now, if I may…?" he stubbornly set his stare over Dumbledore's shoulder.

"What of your classes, dear?" Dumbledore asked, not surprised at the Potion Master's frosty attitude. He'd come to expect it, after years of having Snape under his employment.

Here Snape did not bother to quell his glare, staring furiously at Albus' crooked nose in an effort not to look into the Headmaster's potentially dangerous eyes. "I thought you were going to cover them for me today, Headmaster," he sneered slightly, hating it when he was taunted or seemingly joked upon.

Albus exhaled gently. He had thought a good night's rest would help calm his short-tempered Potions Master, but, at a closer look at Snape's avoidance to meet his eyes, he realized the poor child had probably slept even less than he himself. _Oh Severus_, he couldn't help but sigh to his insides.

"Will you be back?" the old man asked softly.

_Will you be back_? Snape had asked, and Harry had replied _As soon as I can_.

"If you'll have me," the young man said monotonously.

"Of course, Severus! You are always welcome here," Dumbledore exclaimed, and Snape wondered what was going through the Headmaster's mind, "I wouldn't want to lose my newest Head of Slytherin," He smiled tenderly, "nor my beloved Potions Master."

_Afraid of losing a pawn that is difficult to replace, Albus_? Snape thought bitterly.

"I'll be back tonight," Snape brushed past the Headmaster, "I give you my word."

_I am only going out to collect an old friend, after all_.

"Take your time," Albus' voice drifted behind him, "and rest easy, Severus. I will never cast you aside, not for anything like this."

Snape said nothing, and was quickly gone from sight. He was outside Hogwarts and at the point where Apparation was possible five minutes after that. With a quiet pop, the former Death Eater was gone.

Nothing but the Headmaster's sad twinkle noticed his departure.

° ° °

Harry easily slipped into Morpheus' arms after the aurors left, having no more energy to remain awake. (_A/N: Morpheus is the God of sleep. The phrase 'falling into Morpheus' arms' is, as far as I know, a sentence meaning one falls into a deep sleep._) His dreams were remarkably unpleasant, but infinitely better than the stark darkness his Solitary had provided for so long. When one is so dreadfully alone, dreaming of something is always better than dreaming of nothing.

He awoke once more with a stiff back, a guttural groan rising pitifully from his throat when the faint light from outside invaded his sensitive eyes. He could hear a faint buzzing in his otherwise silent ears, a product from his recent reencounter with the sound of voices using his real body rather than his spiritual essence. Harry was terribly disoriented at first, used to waking up to darkness instead of the dimly lit dingy cell he was now living in.

Hand moving ever so slowly and shaking something awful, he jerked in surprise when he touched the cold water bucket just inches from his cot. Carefully he allowed his limp and unresisting hand to dip into the liquid before painfully and just as slowly bringing his digits back to his face, licking his numb fingers. The water was deliciously clear, urging his otherwise dead body into action as he forced himself to pick it up, bringing it to his parched lips.

Harry hissed quietly when it tipped all over him, managing only a few gulps before placing it aside to catch his breath again, shivering at the invasion of cold. But he was more awake than he'd been for a long time now, and his memories were quick to flow back to him.

_Snape_, was his first panicked thought.

How long had it been since he'd last contacted the sour man? Sleep came often and time was meaningless, so he had no way of knowing when his last waking moments had been. The aurors had not come by again, and if they had, they hadn't woken Harry. Using this as a means to measure how long he'd been out, he carefully let his body relax, urging himself to conserve his new found energies lest he tire his reserves out beyond repair.

Having lingered in the dark for so long, it came as a surprise when his blurred vision focused on his thin wrist laying obediently on his lap. Skeletal arms crisscrossed with clearly visible blue and greenish veins became clear to his eyes, long bony digits gnarled and shriveled from the lack of light and nutrition trembling faintly like that of an old man's.

_Merlin's beard_, Harry thought incredulously, staring at what remained of his strong hands with something akin to utter disbelief. _What the fuck has happened to me_?

_Three years in Azkaban_, his mind provided moments later. _One spent in utter and total darkness. What did you expect_?

He closed his eyes and carefully brought his skeletal hands to his face, dull shock coursing through his paper-thin veins when his fingers met the deep contusions of his jutting cheekbones and sunken eyes. _I look like a monster_, he realized as he saw by feeling. _I look like a fucking freak_.

Memories of his fourth year came back to him, Voldemort's hideous body emerging from the cauldron, while the rat lay worshipping to one side, staring at his master in awe. A slit snake-like nose and sharp scarlet eyes, Harry recalled quite clearly, and for a moment he was dead frightened at the thought that perhaps he too looked like his nemesis—his fingers proved to be his relief, however, when they touched a nose and felt about his normal-enough eyes.

_If__I look like anyone_, Harry thought jokingly to himself as he felt the hollow indents of his cheeks, _it's like Sirius or perhaps even Snape_.

Sirius.

Harry leaned back against the cool wall and thought of his godfather. Sirius was here, somewhere, in the bowels of this hell-pit, imprisoned just like he was. Thirteen years…Sirius would be in here for thirteen years. _I have been here for three and I'm already like this_, the green-eyed man thought distantly, ashamed at himself.

Sirius Black had remained sane, supposedly through thoughts centering solely on vengeance and disguising his emotions via his animagus form. Harry had tried the former and failed spectacularly. He didn't even want to try to shift into an animal—besides his impressive, unexplainable feat of detaching his spirit from his body, he was otherwise incapable of casting magic. The wand-exploding incident was enough proof of that, Harry thought sourly.

This led to him remembering Snape again. Pulling back the sleeve of his left arm, Harry wasn't surprised to see he too still had the little angry red scars scattered about his skin, little drops of dried blood on the edges of each slit. The very similar scars on Snape's right arm had been bleeding, Harry recalled, a product of Harry's fruitless attempt at forced physical communication. Probably because they had been connected when the wand exploded, he supposed, gently rubbing off the flaking blood.

He vaguely wondered how Snape was doing now, and if the bleeding had stopped. Snape could very well take care of himself, but Harry wasn't sure of his mental state. Connecting with his old Potions Master had been excruciatingly painful for both parties, but once that had been over with, mental communication had seemed pathetically easy. Knowing Snape was a master of Occlumency, the thought that perhaps his former cellmate had been devastated by this intrusion worried Harry. He'd certainly felt a similar feeling while hovering about Snape's head, careful not to touch anything. After his last encounter with Snape's thoughts way back when, he knew better than to dive unwanted into another's memories.

A sudden, distant bark snapped him out of his reverie.

Silence echoed this canine yell, but Harry was sure he wasn't dreaming it. He attempted to stand up and run over to his cell door to see what was up, but failed spectacularly. His muscles and bones, weak from disuse, collapsed under him and brought him crashing down. He groaned, cursing to himself for being such a fool and not remembering his own state. He slowly brought his hands parallel to the ground and attempted to lift himself up, but he had no strength to accomplish anything further than exerting his useless arms. Beyond frustrated at his failure, Harry gasped harshly and tried to fight back the tears, pushing harder, managing only to make his wrist snap audibly.

He hissed in pain at this, but his cry was cut short by the agony it caused simply by forcing his vocal chords. It was then that he allowed the silent tears to cross down his face as he held his injured hand limply against his chest, wishing it would all end. God, he wasn't sure how much longer he would be able to take of this.

With his head so close to the ground, hearing the tinny clicks of animal paws race across the floor wasn't so difficult. _Sounds like a rat_, Harry thought slowly, his mind so muddled with pain it was difficult to think. Behind that, the more audible clicks of a much larger animal's claws pacing almost uncertainly were a piece of cake to listen to. _What is that_? Harry wondered dumbly, gritting his teeth as he slowly rolled himself to his back and scooted over marginally closer to his cell door.

Unlike in Solitary, where there was no door whatsoever, and unlike the few scattered Seventh Floor cells with a barred window at the top of the cell, most Sixth Floor chambers had a sort of "gate" for every cell. The only way to enter was through a sliding section of the gate that was bound tightly sealed shut by ancient magic, penetrable only if you had a certain magical cylindrical metallic object that served as a key. As far as Harry knew from Auror's bickering, there were two Master Keys for each floor, but a Sixth Floor master key wouldn't be able to open a Third Floor cell, and vise versa.

As a sort of fail safe in case of an emergency, Harry supposed, though it was undoubtedly a hassle carrying around so many keys for eight levels.

Harry's cell had very narrow bars, but the gaps between the bars were larger nearer to the sliding gate. Harry, simply by looking at his emaciated body, knew that it wouldn't be too hard to slip through these larger bars. That is, of course, if he had the strength to move. Most prisoners were far too insane or mired in their own agony that the aurors never quite worried about this little detail. Harry supposed they assumed that no prisoner in his right mind would attempt to escape because they were far too skinny.

Another mistake for them, he thought distantly.

The clicks were getting closer, more urgent, and he could vaguely hear small sniffing sounds, as if whatever animal patrolling about were trying to sniff his prey out. Indeed, a terrified little rat sped through the slimmer part of his bars and raced about his room in circles, seeking a way out. Realizing that it was cornered, the rat turned around to flee out of the cell and continue down the hallway when it was stopped by the huge, growling face of a Grim, snarling just outside of Harry's prison.

_Oh fuck_, was Harry's first thought as he gazed at the magnificent, starved creature that was currently trying to squeeze through the larger bars as it kept barking madly at the rat. _I am so dead_.

The rat, smarter than it seemed, neared the huge beast and then turned and fled through the smaller bars again, escaping down the hall. The wolf-dog howled and tried desperately to get unstuck from where he was wedged between the larger bars, but he was trying to get out the wrong way and managed only to get his broad shoulders stuck even more.

"_A GRIM_!" at the same time, a sudden human voice pierced through the animalistic commotion, emerging from in front of Harry's cell, "_Holy Merlin, it's a fucking Grim_!" The owner of the voice howled in maniacal laughter, "_It's going to kill us all_!"

As if one, the entirety of the Sixth Floor hallway's prisoners began to scream and yell inside their cells, some moaning loudly and others just shrieking for the sake of it. Crazed and starved prisoners rushed to the front of their gate-cells, grasping the bars and shaking them as much as they were able, causing a terrible racket. Seconds after the chaos began, Harry could hear the auror's footsteps charging down the hall, yelling out stunners left and right.

The Grim, if it really was such a creature, seemed to shrink and whimper, struggling harder to free itself from where it was wedged, managing only to push itself further into Harry's cell. Harry could hear the auror's footsteps coming closer and closer to where the both of them, feeling a sudden need to help the damned creature before it got itself killed.

"Get under my cot," Harry rasped urgently from his place on the floor, "Get under my cot, you stupid animal, before you get yourself caught!"

The beastly creature that towered over Harry seemed to stare at him incredulously before it gave an imperceptible nod and pushed itself through, dashing under the cot and huddling to the corner where it hopefully lay unseen. It's black, matted fur seemed to disappear into the darkness beautifully, concealing him quite effectively. Harry wouldn't have known the beast was hiding under there unless he himself hadn't seen it.

"Stay there," he croaked, shifting slowly to a sitting position, gritting his teeth at the pain that erupted from his injured limb and protesting spine. "Don't move. They're going to pass through here soon."

A group of four aurors were busy subduing all the crazy inmates, red jets of magic spewing from their wands as they downed them all. It didn't take more than fifteen seconds for them to reach Harry's chamber. The aurors, seeing Harry's limp and unmoving form did not stun him; instead, they concentrated their force towards the guy in front of Harry's cell that was still raging on about the Grim. However, he expertly dodged all the incoming scarlet rays and continued ranting on excitedly, seeming to have a never ending air supply to continue without pause.

"Shut _up_, Sixty-Five!" a familiar voice erupted from one of the heavily armed aurors, "Or we'll all have to stun you and we'll see if you wake up five hours later this time!" _It's one of the men who brought me up here_, Harry's mind told him, working at a furious pace to think up a plan of how to conceal Sirius. _Surely they won't listen to him_.

"I'd love to wake up to your face, darling!" the number-referred to inmate cackled, barely dodging another red jet, "But I'm not kidding, _Raffy_," Sixty-Five grinned toothily, "There's a Grim in the cell with Skull Kid over there! I saw him tell it to _get under his_—"

"God damn it, shut up you crazy fucking bastard!" the young auror screamed in frustration, "_Diffindo_!"

Sixty-Five only just managed to duck the severing charm, though it took off a good lock of his hair in the process. "Merlin's balls, kid!" the startled prisoner cried, "Alright, alright, I'm backing up!"

"McKinnon," an unknown auror beside him hissed with an alarming avenging flame in his eyes, "Do not harm the inmates directly, or you'll very well find yourself getting a ticket into here as a _prisoner_."

Raphael turned bright red, eyes registering shock. "I—"

"Silence, Raff." Benjy's clear voice came as he jogged down the hall from the other end to join the other four, "And step down, Dawlish. It is not your place to berate those under my command."

_Dawlish_. That name was familiar, but Harry couldn't quite place it.

Well, whoever he was, he looked pissed. His hair had been shaved recently, it seemed, so Harry did not know what colour it was. Looking at him brought no familiar memories to tell the truth, so Harry supposed it was either someone he didn't know, or someone he would know but much later in the future. Not wanting to stress his mind any more by contemplating quantum physics, Harry attempted to play dead and hope the aurors let go of Sixty-Five's speculation as folly.

"I'll make sure higher ground hears of your…preferential treatment, Fenwick," Dawlish growled dangerously, "Let us see how kindly the Head takes upon you then!"

"Step _down_, Dawlish." Benjy said softly, but his eyes were deadly. Dawlish glared at him but said nothing.

"Enough of this," an auror in his late thirties said firmly, clearly the leader of the bunch, "We have more important things to do than argue amongst ourselves! Show some composure, men!"

A mutter of "Yes, sir," rang through the bunch.

"The prisoners are now relatively submissive, Gawain," Benjy told the older auror respectfully, though there was a hint of companionship in his voice that told Harry that these two were on more friendly terms than simply boss and subordinate. "I suggest we enervate those we have stunned, and continue our patrols. The inmates do tend to get itchy feet after some days of silence and no Dementor trouble—it was bound to happen sooner or later. I believe they are fine now."

"Gawain," Dawlish cut in crudely, "These are Azkaban prisoners we are talking about. It is best if they are reminded of such and left as they are. The Dementors may be absent, leading them into a false sense of security, but—"

"It is Mister Robards, or sir, to you, Dawlish," Gawain said simply, "And I do believe you were just arguing the dangers of harming prisoners directly? It does not look good upon your character to say one thing and do another."

Dawlish turned red, then purple, reminiscent of a much more fit Vernon Dursley. Harry suppressed a shudder, and inched away to his cot as the aurors argued, wincing at the pain this brought his broken wrist. Sirius—if it really was the man in animagus form—was still huddled in the corner, unmoving, staring up at Harry with curious dark blue eyes. Was he wondering why Harry had protected him? What was going on through his mind at the moment?

As much as Harry would've loved to ask and then jump into his Godfather's arms and explain everything, he knew he could not do so. And besides, he was in no position to start babbling anything without looking more insane then he already was.

Something he shared with Snape, though this he was not aware of.

He tuned his senses back into the auror's argument, hoping they would simply walk on instead of bickering so close to his cell and the Grim that lay under his cot. It would prove not to be, however, since the damned inmate in front of his cell—whom Harry was coming very close to hating now—spoke up again, regardless of whatever damage he might once again receive from the aurors.

"Well, darlings," Sixty-Five piped up, successfully gaining the attention of the five wizards, "I'd love to continue to hear you chatter, but I'd also be delighted if you _got rid of the damned Grim_, please?"

"What in Merlin's name are you babbling about?" Dawlish snarled, clearly not in the best of moods.

"As I was saying, Skull Kid over there," the prisoner nodded over to Harry's cell, and Harry froze. _Play dead, _Harry's mantra went. _Play dead, don't come in here, nothing interesting in here_. "The Grim just raced down the hall and jumped into his cell. Probably out to kill him, I suspect, the kid was dying anyhow."

Benjy, Gawain, Dawlish, Raff and the yet unnamed auror looked at each other.

"The Grim?" The unknown auror said warily.

"With all due respect, Gawain," Benjy said sharply, "This man isn't to be trusted. He's probably been hallucinating."

Dawlish, jumping at the chance to demean Benjy's authority, butted in. "Sir, Fenwick is hiding something, I know it!" he snarled, "I say we check out the cell, just in case."

Gawain Robards sighed to himself. He trusted Benjy with his life, having been the man's friend since they were both at school. He was not a superstitious individual, and did not believe in old wives' tales of death-bringing Grims or screeching Augureys, let alone a crazed prisoner's rants of some creature that clearly could not be here. But Dawlish had a point—Grim or not, anything reported as suspicious activity had to be checked and reported. He would not risk his job by defending his friend's opinion, not when doing the right thing was so harmless.

"Let us check the prisoner," he said coolly, "Benjy, you said the one transferred into cell Six Thirty-Five had been in bad condition, right? Perhaps this…" he frowned distastefully at the word, "_omen_ means something. Perhaps not. We should check, nonetheless."

Benjy did not argue, knowing better than to try and outtalk his superior and his very own friend. He tilted his head to one side slightly, giving a shrug. "Very well, Gawain. Let us see, then."

Harry, laying rigidly on the floor, dared not move. He stole a glance at the Grim under his bed, and was half-relieved, half-surprised to see that he couldn't make out the beast's shape at all. Still, he knew it was there, and that was enough. He hoped that the myths were true and Grims really could disappear into mist, just in case—knowing it was Sirius, however, dampened his hope.

_Just don't let him get caught_, he thought desperately. _I have to do something so they won't look under the bed_.

The auror's footsteps came closer to his cell, and Gawain nodded at the remaining auror. "I trust you have the key, Arnold?"

"Yes, sir," the man nodded, and stepped forward, revealing a delicately intricate long piece of metal in a cylindrical shape with magical designs. He pressed it to the lock and pushed it almost all the way in, and had Harry not known that magic made impossible things possible, he would've been speechless at how such a long object could fit so easily into the tiny lock. Pulling it back and muttering an almost inaudible spell, the lock sprung free and the gate slid open automatically.

"Merlin betray us," Arnold's distinctly ruffled voice breathed as he caught a closer look of Harry's emaciated body, "Is this man even alive?"

Footsteps came closer to him and Harry made sure his eyes were closed. _Am I really such a shock_? He wondered with vague amusement. It seemed everyone who came in contact with him these days had to ask that question before they went any further. The auror's hands were rough when they touched his forehead and another to his neck, checking his pulse. Harry groaned slightly at the touch, his head still aching from the fall he'd taken.

"That's what I said," Raff spoke up sourly from behind the little group, standing just outside the cell, "He's still alive though."

"This man needs treatment, sir," Arnold said with an expert's tone, staring at Harry's emaciated body and awkward wrist with a critical gaze, "Now."

"They all need treatment," Dawlish snarled sarcastically, and pushed Arnold away. His rough hands grabbed Harry's body and slammed him against the wall, earning a startled cry from the green-eyed prisoner. "Did you or did you not see something come in here? Speak!"

Harry's eyes were dilated, pain screaming from his broken wrist and probably fractured spine. He muttered something indistinct, staring at the furious auror with wide eyes. _Merlin_, Harry thought in the little place within his head that was away from the excruciating agony. _I'm going to die, aren't I_?

"Dawlish!" Benjy snapped, reigning in his desire to blast the damned man to bits only barely, "Let the poor man go!" Albus would not be pleased if any harm came to this man, whoever he was. And he had no intention of letting a frustrated auror kill the one he was protecting, no matter what.

"Defending a prisoner, Fenwick?" Dawlish shot a dangerous grin over his shoulder, "One might think you've got something to hide with this one…"

"_Enough_!" Gawain roared, startling them all. "Put the prisoner back down, this instant. No harm will come to him from us, men. Arnold is right; this man needs immediate medical treatment. He will not be shipped out of the prison, for obvious reasons, but he must be tended to."

Dawlish stared at Gawain in momentary shock, "Sir…" he began, "This is a _prisoner_…"

"I do not care of your petty worries, Dawlish," Gawain snapped, "Drop the prisoner. I am going to ask Mungo's for a spare Mediwitch that can attend to him whenever possible, and he will then be placed back in his cell once he has been tended to. Is this understood?"

"Yes, sir," Dawlish growled, and threw Harry at his cot with more force than necessary. Harry cried out, and crumpled in his bed without further sound.

"Dawlish!" Benjy snarled, pulling out his wand.

"Step down, Benjy," Gawain said wisely, sharply grabbing Fenwick's wrist and stopping him from possibly ruining his career by attacking a fellow auror, "We'll come down for the prisoner once we finish our duties and request the mediwitch."

"Very well, sir," Benjy said coldly, jerking his hand away from his friend's grasp. "But take this to heed, Dawlish: As you said to Raphael, you best be wary of what your actions, or _you_ may be seeing Azkaban longer than you think."

Dawlish glared at him, but Gawain shook his head. "Let us head out, men. Peasegood, enervate the prisoners that have calmed; you know what to do. McKinnon, continue on with your duties on the Second Floor and for Merlin's sake man, write up your first week report, I need it for tomorrow. Dawlish, Fenwick, come up to the break room and wait for me there. I have something to say to the prisoner in private." The aurors headed out of the cramped cell accordingly, muttering to themselves. Gawain paused before leaving, stealing a glance at Harry who lay panting softly on his cot, eyes glued to the floor.

"I'll be back," he said simply, "Try not to get into more trouble until then."

Harry lifted his head and met Gawain's eyes, and knew instantly that this man meant no harm to him. _He is a good man_, Harry realized just by peering into the auror's honest, firm gaze. _There should be more people like him_. He dropped his head again, giving a small nod.

"I'll try," he rasped out with what hopefully sounded like a respectful tone, "I tend to attract trouble, though."

Gawain smiled in amusement, but it was a tight smile, "Very well. Until then." He turned around, closing the heavy gate behind him swifly, and was gone.

Harry had almost forgotten the Grim under his cot until it slowly emerged from it, bumping Harry's legs in the process. It paused and walked around his legs, staring levelly at him with wide curious eyes, unmoving.

"Hi, Sirius," Harry croaked softly, and promptly fell unconscious.

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Thanks for reading! Drop by a review if you have time, it's truly appreciated! 


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Notes: **Sorry for the long delay...I tend do this far too often, don't I? Good news is, I've written down four more chapters in my absence so I can assure you that this fic isn't going to die anytime soon. Thank you guys for waiting on me and sending the lovely reviews and words of encouragement. They really mean a lot to me!

This chapter is dedicated to all of you - if you find any errors, it is my fault, since I was unable to contact my betas.

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**Chapter 17 - **_Past Agonies_

Sirius Nigellus Black had awoken from a dream—involving eating a very satisfyingly crunchy Wormtail—when he saw the rat. Naturally, his first instinct was to attack it and rip it to shreds. Had he fallen asleep in human form, this thought would've dissolved to the back of his head by logic, but, as luck would have it, he'd drifted off in his animagus form. This was done in order to garner some sort of peace instead of seeing flashes of his Azkaban trial and other unfortunate events throughout his life due to the persistent presence of the Dementors (even though recently he'd seen hair nor hide of the creatures, it was best to be cautious).

And, as instinct decreed it, with an animal's ferocious reflexes, Sirius snarled and dashed at it.

The rat, frightened senseless, turned and fled out of the cell and into the Seventh Floor hall. Having just spent the better part of three weeks in Solitary, the usually bulky Grim animagus was emancipated to a serious degree and had little problems slipping through the bars of his cell. Without a thought to the logics of his actions, he sped off after the speedy critter, snarling and hoarsely barking after it.

It disappeared and he immediately set his strong nose to the floor, ignoring the stench of death and concentrating only on the rat's scent. He barked in triumph when he found the trail: clever little rat dashed up the stairs to the Sixth floor! Sirius leapt up the steps, wandering around a bit as he attempted to follow the lead. He heard a familiar squeak and saw the rat speeding on, slipping into a new cell in hopes of escaping the huge dog's jaws.

Peter Pettigrew's traitorous face flashed in Sirius's dog memory and he rammed into the cell, snarling furiously at the quivering rat, cursing anything and everything when he realized he'd wedged himself stuck. He hardly paid attention to the prisoner inside the cell, at the moment far too distracted with his potential kill than his own situation.

But his attention was severed from the rat when all around him the prisoners began to scream, yell and pound at their doors, one in particular crying out _Grim_. It was then when he realized he was in deep shit, even more so because he was outside his cell and the aurors would no doubt be crashing around here to silence them up and he'd be stuck here, a sitting duck. Being discovered as an illegal animagus would no doubt add another few years to his ninety-nine year sentence, and although he never really expected to get out of here alive if he waited out his due, he did not want to have a longer stay than already assigned.

Salvation came in the form of the prisoner he'd nearly given a heart attack, who whispered to him quickly, "Get under my cot!"

Sirius stared at the prisoner laying rather painfully on the floor, staring at him urgently. The man had small bald patches on his head and the hair he did have was horribly matted, knotted beyond possible. He had a small stubble on his face, recently _Terceo_-ed by the looks of it. The prisoner's face was gaunt and wasted, his horribly frail body fairing not much better. But what was most eye-catching was the incredible green eyes, reminding the animagus painfully of a long deceased friend.

"Get under my cot, you stupid animal, before you get caught!"

The urgency in his voice and the stampede of aurors incoming from both ends of the hall was enough to snap Sirius out of his reverie. Bowing his head slightly, he struggled forward and slipped into the cell, wasting no time in dashing under the smelly cot. He leaned into the corner and pressed against it, fervently wishing inside of his head that no one would be able to see him. Once he was sure he was as hidden as he was going to get, he allowed himself to peer out from behind his fur, staring at the other that'd practically saved him.

The guy—no, the _kid_—was apparently struggling to shift back to his cot, failing miserably due to a very broken wrist and clearly weak arms. Sirius, grateful as he was, wasn't about to go help him, not with aurors patrolling about outside. He wasn't that stupid, or that much of a Gryffindor, thank you very much.

The aurors were making an even larger racket than the unruly prisoners, yelling amongst themselves about something stupid. The rest of the prisoners that weren't stunned had fallen silent, not wanting to get _Stupefied_. Rendered unconscious could lead to a man's death, here in Azkaban—even if the auror's didn't acknowledge their actions were indirectly killing those they silenced. Sirius's canine heart began to pound even louder in his ears when the group walked over to the cell he was in, and for a moment he was frightened that the sound of his beating muscle would alert everybody to his presence.

Therefore, when none of the five noticed him huddled below the ragged cot, he was pathetically grateful.

Why had the kid helped him, though? Sirius, as any long-term inmate in Azkaban learned quickly enough, knew there was no limit to paranoia. There was almost always something desired in return among favours, especially since resources were generally scarce all the time. Connections, which Sirius unfortunately lacked, were usually the best bet to get anything you wanted here. He had nothing to return to the other, except for gratitude and a bit of company before he had to retreat back to his own cell.

A startled cry from the other snapped him back to attention.

When the tough-looking wizard with very short wry hair slammed the his savior into the wall with more force than necessary, Sirius had the urge to race out from his hiding and maul the aggressive auror beyond recognition. He barely reigned in this desire, forcing himself to remain still and not speak out, lest he reveal his position. He waited out the conversation and the departure of the aurors, making sure none of them were still patrolling the halls close to the cell before slowly coming out, bumping his head accidentally on the legs of the young man who'd saved him.

Walking around the legs, Sirius emerged from the cot with grateful eyes, staring at his savior curiously.

"Hi, Sirius," the skeleton of a man croaked with a vague smile before fainting.

Sirius stared for what seemed like an eternity, frozen in position. _What_? His canine mind could not process the information properly; _no one_ knew of his ability, let alone his name, here. The only people still alive who knew of his talent were Remus and the traitorous little rat, none of whom which had informed anybody else, he assumed, or else he would be facing a much longer sentence than what he had at the moment.

The prisoner—kid with a beard, really—was unconscious, laying slumped on his cot. Sirius couldn't ignore it, and whatever remained of his paternal instinct demanding him to help before he fled to his cell again. With these thoughts in mind, the Grim animagus shifted to his human form and glanced around suspiciously, being careful to be silent as he carefully shifted the young man's body to a more comfortable position on the cot.

Sirius's hair was long and matted, similar to the kid's, but not nearly as badly kept. He still kept himself in moderate shape by pacing around his cell and transforming back and forth through his forms, so he was still considerably stronger than your average Azkaban inmate. His eyes, forever a stormy royal blue, were dimmed but never beaten. Lines creased his young face but did not mar his handsome appearance just yet, these traits still remaining despite almost a year now of imprisonment.

On the contrary, the young man looked terrible.

_Merlin_, Sirius thought with wide eyes as he stared. _This kid isn't just like a skeleton—he's a freaking living incarnation of one_!

Snapping himself out of his stunned thoughts, Sirius dragged the water bucket over, frowning when he realized it was nearly empty. There was little he could do to help his saviour, but he wanted to make sure the young man would be as comfortable as possible when the aurors came back. He was well aware he could not stay here—the rare patrolling auror would be sure to notice his absence after a while, and if what the other guy from before had been saying was true, another patrol would be coming about to take the kid up to see a mediwitch sometime soon.

And he didn't want to be anywhere near the cell when that happened.

_He definitely needs it_, Sirius thought as he carefully cleaned the kid's face, wincing whenever the ragged prisoner moaned in pain at the contact, even in the depths of unconsciousness.

As the wrongfully imprisoned man set about making the kid more comfortable, he let his thoughts wander. How had he known his name? Perhaps he'd heard it from someone? No…who? Perhaps he'd only imagined it? Yes, that was more probable. Sirius sighed to himself and ran a hand through his filthy hair, wrinkling his nose when he realized his was as matted as the other's was, if not more so. Automatic charms just didn't cut it!

Damn aurors and their lack of humanity.

He would've never thought ill of the Light's soldiers, but his experience here in Azkaban had changed his views. Sirius had never wanted to hate the Light, but he couldn't help it. The aurors acted cruelly to prisoners, almost like Death Eaters to their victims—Sirius closed his eyes painfully, and told himself that James would've never done something like what they did to him here. James had been a good auror, a brilliant man with a beautiful family…

_He didn't deserve to die_, Sirius mourned his friend. _Fuck…James never deserved to die that way. None of them did_. It only fueled his anger towards the rat, and unconsciously he grit his teeth in the semblance of a canine snarl, eyes alight with fury.

_I will get out_, Sirius promised to himself darkly. _And when I do, I'll rip that rat to shreds. For you, James_.

He glanced down one more time at the skeleton of a child, and allowed himself a small smile of appreciation. "Good luck, kid, and thanks," he rasped out quietly, and turned around, transforming back into a Grim. Slipping through the bars seemed somehow harder, but he managed and was out into the corridor in a few seconds. The large animal paused for a moment, allowing himself a long stare down the corridor that eventually led to another staircase that led to another and so forth, all the way up to sea-level ground on the Third Floor.

_I could run now_, Sirius thought. _I could run now and never come back_.

The idea went away quickly when his sharp ears heard the faint hurried footsteps of aurors coming this way, probably heading towards the very cell he was leaving now. Sirius scampered off as quietly as he could, trotting down the stairs and finding his old cell easily enough. _Seven Twenty-Two_, the canine noted with a scowl before slipping back in, still somewhat amazed at how easy it was to go in and out unnoticed.

In time, Sirius would forget the imprisoned young man who'd sheltered him from discovery, and the thought of him would never cross his mind again. But the notion of leaving Azkaban was born at that moment, and he began to plan…quietly and efficiently he would plot out his escape for the next ten years, until his ticket to freedom.

He had been completely unaware of the eyes that had watched him from cell Six Sixty-Five as he left.

° ° °

_I can't believe this thing still stands_, was his first thought as he stepped through the front door of the house he'd grown up in.

His eyes were emotionless as they gazed the disaster-struck place, noting with uncaring precision of every single broken object had yet to be replaced since their demise. Absently, the hook-nosed man leaned down slightly and picked up an upturned chair, righting the remaining ones with a careless flick.

The entrance hall was as messy as ever, if a bit more dusty. There were no signs of any other living beings but his own presence, and he cherished the fact as much as he bemoaned it. This house held many terrible memories, yes, but like Hogwarts, it had its fair share of beautiful ones as well. He couldn't help the childhood nostalgia that walking past the rooms of his old home brought, just as much as he couldn't reign in his school-boy reminiscence when passing through Hogwart's own vast hallways as a teacher.

His mother, Eileen Prince, had passed away some years prior to his incarceration, blissfully unaware of her only son's terrible deeds in the Wizarding World. His father was also gone, but instead of a natural end, his passing was proof of his Death Eater initiation, a tortured victim to Snape's own wand. Both corpses lay in this house, though one in ashes and the other rotting away, sealed off from the world behind a heavy warded door.

_So alike to our Master_, Snape thought with a smirk at the thought of his father's carcass, _Crouch and I_.

He'd been comrades with the bastard—as murder buddies on raids, to be crude—before the idiot had tried to publicly kill him in order to rise in the ranks. A failed attempt, Severus smirked in dark reminiscence, which led to Crouch's humiliation and his own rise in admiration despite his mercy at allowing the other to live, which even now he secretly gloated. Ever since then, no one had doubted Snape's ability with a wand and Dark Arts—that was for sure.

He ran his fingers through the old bookcase in the next room, remembering his own child-like hands doing the same so many years earlier. As his hands passed over old tomes, they repaired themselves automatically, shifting and shuddering as if to rid themselves of years of dust. Severus took out his black wand and flicked it in the general direction of the destroyed kitchen, watching impassively as the entire place rushed to fix itself magically to it's Master's call.

_It's been a while, _he thought to himself as he felt the soothing rush of magic greet him from his room upstairs. _Hasn't it_?

All the doors with locks sealed themselves, and those whose locks had rotted away magically regained them. Snape made sure the Floo was shut down and set up a simple ward that would discourage muggles from coming anywhere near this place for the next twenty-four hours. Once everything was as closed up as he could manage in such a short amount of time, the greasy-haired Potions Master unhurriedly walked up the stairs and paused at the top step, beside an inconspicuously undecorated door.

The subtly warded entrance fell at a touch of his hand, and the vicious magic waiting to kill whoever managed such a feat snaked away, revealing his old bedroom.

The floor had always been cold, but even more so now, he realized as he took of his shoes and allowed his feet to touch the freezing concrete. He made quick use of his clothes and let them drop, careful to shove them aside far enough away just in case the magic within got too powerful and decided to incinerate everything within a five meter radius. He felt no shame, as he was the only one around. Having made the magic that warded this place, Severus knew all the effects that could occur if said magic found him hostile.

Even if it found him familiar, he would nonetheless have to unspell everything he'd previously placed to get what he wanted. After doing so he would be magically exhausted, Snape knew, and he didn't quite fancy the idea of walking back to Hogwarts naked because he was too weak to summon new garments.

Unconcerned about the chill in the air or the goose bumps rising on his skin due to the high magical residue draped across the furniture, Snape walked into the room, shuddering slightly as familiar magic caressed his body. His room was as it had always been—dreary and uncomfortably organized, though now mostly bare. His bed, so tiny it seemed now that he was older, was shoved into the corner, gathering its own impressive amount of dust.

And in the center of the small room lay a chair, and on that chair sat a stiff corpse. He stared at the scene impassively for a few minutes, taking in all in once more, before speaking levelly.

"Hello, father," Severus greeted easily enough, "Did you miss me?"

The grinning skeleton smiled back eerily at him, decaying brownish skin dripping off of the body as half-eaten eyeballs stared up at him. The bugs had done a good job despite heavy magical wards, he noted. Still, Snape allowed himself a moment to admire his handiwork. He walked forward and touched his dead father's face with something akin to tenderness, smirking when the corpse leaned into his hand due to gravity, though did not tip over, as if held back by something. Tobias Snape's corpse would've collapsed to the ground by then, had his son's magic not been holding his bones together all these years.

_I wonder what you would've thought_, Severus wondered as he absently wiped his hand of the rotting skin with the wall. _Seeing that you're being held together with the magic you so desired and despised._

"I've come for something," he murmured, glancing down into his father's hands. "I'm sure you know what."

The corpse continued to grin at him, dead hands wrapped stiffly and tightly around a small jar. Within it lay the final ashes of Eileen Prince, guarded by the very man who would've never done so while living. _Ironic_, a younger Severus had thought when he'd spelled up the place. _And so terribly fitting_.

Snape lowered his hand and let it hover over the jar, grimacing when he realized the faint Death Eater mark marring his left arm did not allow him to touch the object, magic repelling his hand subtly with every attempt. What guarded the urn was a spell to ward away any being bearing a Death Mark, among other things—a spell of his own making. But he hadn't taken into account the fact that it wouldn't allow him passage either; he'd always assumed the magic would give him entrance, since it was his own, but apparently this was not to be.

_Strange_, Severus sighed. _But not exactly unexpected_.

Since Azkaban, his magic had not been the same. Although no less Dark than what it had always been, it was twisted, as if smeared permanently with another's influence. He'd assumed it had been an after effect to long-term exposure to Dementors, but even after he'd taken Potion after Potion to rid himself of tainted magic, nothing had worked.

_I guess the five meter incineration is in order_, he frowned tightly, once more making sure that his clothes were far enough along outside in the hall so they wouldn't get damaged.

He voiced two protective spells on his body but spared none for his room, knowing he would not need it after he'd taken what he wanted. His father's body, as much as it amused Severus to impede its eternal rest, could rot away now if it wanted. His mother's ashes deserved the release, especially after everything she'd done for him. Her last task—protecting the Horcrux within—had come to an end, and she had done her job well.

Quietly, exhaling a barely perceptible sigh, Severus pointed his wand at the urn and spoke the words of release.

And his whole world exploded.

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Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome and appreciated! 


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** Well, here's the long-awaited chapter 18. I'm sorry I hadn't posted it earlier - it's been two months just sitting boredly on my computer and I haven't gone over it since then, nor written more. I seem to have hit a slump...and I hate it. I know exactly what's going to happen...why can't I write it then? Gr...I'll get back into my rhythm soon enough, I promise. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this next installment!

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**Chapter 18 - **_Stolen Witness_

The mediwitch came promptly.

She arrived through the only way possible: boat. She came willingly, as a volunteer, since no one else seemed to want to head to Azkaban to treat prisoners. She didn't mind. As a descendant from a long line of powerful healers, it wasn't surprising that she felt it her duty to help anyone in need. Born in St Mungo's and having worked within its walls for more than two decades, she was a healer at heart and overall a truly kind individual.

Her name was Matilda Bonham.

The air was chilly and the coldness that enveloped her the moment she entered Azkaban drove right into her bones. She shuddered slightly and wrapped her brightly coloured cloak closer around her shoulders, instinctively frowning at the air of hopelessness that lurked all throughout the complex. The hunched back man who'd navigated the small magically-propelled boat had waved at her and leered eerily as he rowed away, jerking his head at the entrance and laughing when she'd called out to ask him where she had to go. Several short minutes of internal panic had passed when no one had come to pick her up, but this stress had been relieved when a pale, older-looking auror trotted over to her and lead her inside.

"Sorry for being so late, ma'am," the man was saying as she stumbled after his brisk pace, "We had some trouble up on level one with one of the more pompous prisoners and it was overall a whole mess for a while."

"It's okay," Matilda murmured, but the other apparently hadn't heard since he made no indication of acknowledgement. Beginning to regret her decision to come along alone, she gathered her courage and continued to speak, louder this time. "Where's the sick?"

The auror turned back to her and smiled rather ironically. "I'd rather not answer that, madam, considering the whole lot of them are all mad in some way. We're heading to the break room right now; you really only have to check on one—we will bring him to you there."

"I don't mind seeing more," she remarked rather naively, "Now that I'm here, I mean."

"You'd have to stay here forever," the auror shrugged coldly, "They're all dying in some way. You can't help them. Watch out here, there's a rather nasty hole hidden in the third step. Took us two hours to pull out the last chap who fell in there."

Matilda was not a young witch, nor did she hold the illusion that she could save everyone she tried to help. With years of experience, she'd dealt with a wide variety of individuals and was no stranger to cruel apathetic individuals or other similar pessimistic people. But, here, in such a place were dying stank and the stench of death reeked from every rock, she couldn't stop the rush of frustration and anger. How dare this man act so coldly? Prisoners or not, murderers or rapists, they were all people. And she had vowed an oath to save all those she could, and they were most certainly included in it.

Sighing, she released her tension with a chilly breath. The man probably couldn't help it, and Matilda understood his actions. "Still," she insisted, "I'd like to see those that are worse off in here as well. I want to do all that I can."

The auror glanced at her with hooded eyes and shrugged, "Whatever, ma'am, if you want. But keep in mind we aren't going to drag them all up for you. You'll have to go to them."

"Very well," she struggled not to grind her teeth as another wave of irritation surged through her, "As long as one of you can come as an escort. I do not know my way around here, after all."

"You're crazy, miss," the auror remarked coolly, not in a cruel sense but merely stating it, giving her a second glance before pausing at a nice-looking door on the second floor, "Why do you want to help these bastards?"

"I believe that everyone can be saved, sir, and they are no exception. I have vowed to save all people, and healing is what I do. It is like asking you to stop using magic just because it's unnatural."

He looked at her and glanced into her determined eyes, slightly surprised at her vehemence. He broke into a grin and laughed easily, breaking the sullen silence, "You are completely right. Staying here for so many weeks tends to suck the goodness out of a man—I apologize. I agree with your views; all men are worth their salt. There are few aurors to spare, but I'm sure the ones patrolling each hall will be glad to escort such a fine lady. Make yourself at home, madam; I and my companions will bring the man up to you."

He opened the door and nodded at her, signaling towards the fireplace on the far right with his wand and lighting it. All along the large room lay strewn papers, messy mugs of spell-warmed chocolate and scattered feather pens, as well as countless empty and half-full ink bottles stacked haphazardly on two aligned desks shoved in a corner. On the drab grey walls hung ten portraits, their inhabitants shifting sleepily from time to time, their names imprinted on small plates below their paintings. Overall the room looked stuffy but homely considering the general air of the entire structure, and it exuded a much livelier vibe than the rest of Azkaban. Matilda estimated that about half a dozen men could fit here in a relatively comfortable fashion; further into the room she made out through the mess that there was another door, probably leading to the auror's sleeping quarters.

"Welcome to the Break, madam," the auror gestured to the room with a small smile, "Our little haven in hell."

"It is…comfortable," she spoke awkwardly. Quickly, she regained her professionalism. "Where will I tend to the prisoner, though? There's not much space to place him." She paused for a second, and then blinked, "Or her."

"Him," the auror nodded with a small grin, and it faded when he remembered just how terrible the skeleton had looked. "As far as I'm aware, that is." He then frowned speculatively, "I don't think any of the men will be pleased if we use one of their beds. I can conjure a table for you, but that's the best we can manage."

"It will be fine," she nodded. "I have all the rest that I need in my bag."

He enlarged the room slightly and conjured a table, frowning when it collapsed due to the fact that it only had three feet. He blushed, muttering something about never being very good at transfiguration. Matilda, having warmed up to the auror, smiled at him and conjured her own. He thanked her and scratched his head with an embarrassed grin. She thought it made him look ages younger, and became sad at the thought that it was probably because of this horrible place that he'd become so bitter and cold.

"Professor McGonagall always berated me on my abysmal transfiguration skills; she used to say it would be remarkable if I ever got to be an auror at all," he recalled with a reminiscent smile, "Ah, those were the days." He snapped out of his memories and holstered his wand professionally. "But that's a tale for another day. Let me gather up McKinnon and Dawlish to bring you the prisoner. Until then, you can sit down and put your things out or whatever. I won't take longer than a few minutes."

"All right," she nodded, already having begun unpacking her things from her satchel.

The nameless auror departed and she bustled around the stuffy room, frowning when she stepped on an empty inkbottle with a small crunch. Sighing, she _Scourify_-ied the glass and frowned speculatively at the room. _It really is a mess_, she thought. Feeling a parental annoyance overcome her, which was strange since she'd never had any children, she began cleaning up the place as much as she could through magic, sterilizing the table and finally aligning her stack of potions on it neatly.

Matilda hadn't been told much on the condition of her soon-to-be-patient. All she really knew was that he was a priority prisoner that had experienced extreme starvation and needed a general examination. Therefore, due to the lack of information, she'd brought along most of her traveling supplies. Even then, she hadn't expected something too radical, but now, inside Azkaban, she was afraid she might have come ill equipped.

The walls were soundproof, but since the door was open, she saw the three coming aurors heading to the room soon before she actually heard them. Clearly they were arguing amongst themselves as they headed her way, being trailed by a floating…corpse? Wait a second…

"—stand down McKinnon! And you, Dawlish, stop provoking him. Acting like first years, honestly! You both know better than this."

"Sorry Robards sir," the towering, bald man growled, jerking his wand and ghosting a grin when the floating corpse's head banged on the doorframe behind them.

"_Dawlish_!" the auror she'd been escorted with at the entrance roared, "If you do not control yourself, I _will_ report you, nephew of the Office Head or not! And you, McKinnon, are far too rash! Control yourself or I'll be sending you on a one-way shipment to the Muggle Department office!"

The youngest looking man had been smirking at his older companion's shocked face, but his own face darkened when the auror turned to him and gave him an earful as well.

"If I'm not interrupting anything," Matilda tore in scathingly, angered by the treatment of the one she was to see, "I would like to see my patient in one piece."

The three aurors snapped towards her, as if surprised she existed. Immediately after this moment of shock, however, the leading auror—'Robards', she noted—nodded sharply and gestured to the so-called Dawlish. Face twisted into a grimace that made it appear as if the very action of being kind was painful, the powerful man lowered the floating corpse gently onto the sterilized table and stepped away, breaking the connection. For a moment she was afraid the man had killed her patient, but was relieved when she noticed the so-called 'corpse' was breathing after all.

_One down…_she made a note, and then glanced at the three men, who were taking turns glaring at each other and looking at her expectantly. _One more thing to do, then_.

"Thank you," she nodded and said, not quite unkindly but with a definite tone of _don't-fuck-with-me_, "Now, all of you, _out_. I do not need your bickering while I proceed to examine him."

"What!" the younger man—'McKinnon'—exploded, "This is our room! You have no right—"

"_That's enough_, Raphael." Robards said softly, dangerously, cutting through anyone's complaints. He turned towards the mediwitch; "Miss…"

"Bonham," she provided. "Matilda, if you prefer."

He nodded at her politely, "Miss Bonham here is our guest, and it is only proper etiquette to allow her free reign of our best chamber. She is here of her own will, and so we will comply to her commands while she remains. Is this understood?"

"Yes, sir," the other two said sullenly.

"Good. Once again I find myself apologizing to you, madam. If you are in need of anything, I and my men will be standing beyond the room."

"That is fine," she agreed, pleasantly surprised at his unexpected courtesy, "I won't take long."

Once they filed out of the room, she returned to her patient. She expertly eyed him and frowned, the familiar feeling of anger at the injustice of the world creeping into her gut. The man she was tending to was emaciated to a very serious degree, the rags on his thin shoulders barely covering his tiny frame. His face was sunken in and his entire being radiated constant years of abuse that had eventually shaped him into this corpse of a being.

All of this briefly inspired a pity within Matilda; she gently pushed away the mat of hair covering his eyes, stroking the prisoner's face to get rid of the clumps of sweat, mucus and dust that had gathered there. She wondered if anyone had ever shown his ragged features such kindness, and sighed, shaking her head. If she pitied everyone she encountered, her soul would've broken her long ago.

Clenching her teeth, she closed off her emotions and proceeded to examine his face and teeth, grimacing at the smell. A spell revealed his youth and a first name, but no birth date. She frowned and tried again, but it came but as the same. _Strange_, she thought briefly, but shrugged it off and continued, not really needing the information now that she knew his age, estimating he was from 1964, if not later. **(A/N: Harry is nineteen currently; it is around late 1983.)**

_A child_, she thought sadly.

With an air of professionalism, she vanished his clothing and examined the rest of his body swiftly. A closer inspection with her wand revealed numerous broken or improperly healed bones, as well as a vast array of little nuisances including internal and external bleeding. _A wrist broken in two places, a missing finger, an injured tail bone…_she placed a gentle hand on his chest and proceeded to listen to his heartbeat and ragged lungs…_loss of mobility, difficulty breathing, bruised muscle and a probably damaged digestive tract due to malnutrition…_she continued the count, mentally listing his injuries and pulling out the appropriate supplies for each. It would take many days and a strict regiment of selective balms and potions to cure him, as well as a balanced meal and exercise.

None of which would be provided here, she thought darkly, considering the atmosphere. She may just have to stay longer than what she had planned, or find a way to send him to a real hospital. This treatment was inhumane; it was completely wrong. Rubbing her forehead, Matilda expelled a sigh. She was pleased that so many young witches and wizards were arguing for Wizard's Rights these days—pretty much founded on petty controversies such as homosexuality and other assortments of freedoms—but she was sad that their voices hadn't reached as far as these walls. She would have to change that someday…

After completely tallying the impressive count, she checked his magical levels in order to further detect any inconsistencies and gasped at the gray mist that rose from her wand's tip.

_What_…? She gaped, her mind trying to process the incomprehensible logic.

This man had no magic inside of himself. For all intents and purposes, her patient was a muggle.

° ° °

Harry was used to the darkness of unconsciousness. What he wasn't used to, however, was feeling the intangibility of his being while in said state. Immediately he recognized his form as that of his spiritual essence, having experienced the sensation of being ghost so many times that he knew the difference automatically. His first thought was of Sirius, and a terrible, regretful glow burned within him.

_Sirius_, he wept within himself. _Oh Sirius_.

Poor Sirius. His life would be misery upon misery, until his ultimate demise. Harry, whose memories had been twisted by Dementor influence for so long, could not remember how his end would come—but he knew it would arrive, and it would be his fault. Terrible agony ripped through him, feeling useless, like a prophet who knows but can never succeed in changing destiny.

There was nothing he could do, and not now, so long ago in the past.

Eventually, Harry calmed down enough to begin to wonder where he was, and where his body lay so he could return to it. It was dark, but only because he knew he was unconscious. The only problem, it seemed, was finding a way to go back. At the moment he felt no connection to anything, and that frightened him. If he did not go back, he would die, he knew instinctively. His body, without spirit, would be just as useful as a Dementor-kissed corpse.

The only tugging he felt at the moment was a mild insistence in the general direction of what he now knew as his connection to Snape—realizing that if he wanted to get back to his body, heading towards anyone would be a good idea. Perhaps Snape could help. And this would give him chance to speak with the man again—now that he was out of that accursed Solitary, it was probably that Harry would get better. This way, he hoped, it would help convince Snape that he really was real.

Their joint connection was impressively strong, and Harry found himself being flung at a haphazard velocity, speeding uncounted miles towards Snape's location…wherever _that_ was. Visibility came to him then, and he found himself face-to-face with none other than the hook-nosed man himself. Jerking back slightly from the surprise, Harry's spirit recovered quickly and grinned cheerfully, chirping a greeting, frowning when he realized the other could not hear him. Cautiously he raised his translucent hand in front of him, through Snape's head as he'd done last time, but he felt no change in their connection or his lack of ability to communicate. If anything at all he realized that, although their connection remained unbroken, it appeared Snape's metal wards were at an all-time high, blocking any and all possible attempts of mental communication.

It was then that he realized that Snape had a very concentrated look on his face, staring at something beyond Harry's stomach.

Curious, Harry glanced around and froze.

A foot away from him, on a chair, sat the most horrendous corpse he had ever seen. Brown, half-eaten skin and bones peeked out from the stench of rotten death, empty eye sockets staring with seamless amusement at its spectators. The body was naked, placed in a stiff sitting position, a small jar held protectively on its lap, cracked in a few places but still filled to the brim with a strange ash. All around them the decorations in the chamber deemed it someone's former bedroom, and Harry had the cold feeling that this place belonged to Snape.

What was going on here?

"Snape?" Harry asked again, hearing his voice but seeing no reaction from his companion. "Snape? Severus? What the hell is happening? Snape!"

Nothing. They were connected, but the pathway wasn't open. Not even forcing himself through could achieve anything.

Floating around nervously, Harry inched away from the corpse and stared at his companion when he belatedly realized Snape was completely naked. Flushing, although he knew he couldn't technically do so in his current state, he politely turned around and wondered just what the hell was going on in this fucked up scene. Was this real? Or was it a figment of his unconscious imagination?

Snape did not seem to care of his own state of undress. In fact, he was all but unaware of it, seemingly more interested in the corpse before him. Harry did not know what was going on—and without communication, he doubted he ever would. _A man, a spirit, and a corpse, all in the same room_, Harry thought morbidly. _Merlin, what else_?

Suddenly, Snape smirked coldly and spoke, breaking the silence that had grown between the three unknowing entities. "Hello, father. I'm sure you missed me."

Harry stared.

And stared.

_Father_?

Despite the years of deterioration in Azkaban, Harry was not stupid. He could see the many subtle hints and pull together a conclusion from this scene. By Snape's apparent nonchalance for his father's body and his undress, it appeared that he had either done this himself, thus his apathy, or was intending to do something, like a ritual. Perhaps both.

Now all that remained was the simple but unpredictable question: what next?

Snape reached forward and Harry floated away from it, a shiver coursing up his spine when he saw Snape stroke the decaying face in what seemed like affection. Slowly a thought entered him…perhaps Snape's actions were…

_No_, Harry thought vehemently, more than mildly disgusted. _Murder Snape may be, a bastard, a cruel man…but he wouldn't…he's not_…

His denial proved correct, as Snape wiped his hand on the wall with an expression of revulsion in his eyes and stepped away. The man nodded to the jar in the corpse's hand and murmured a sentence with an air of irony that didn't escape the spirit's perception. Harry, had he not been before, was now completely immersed in what was happening. What was inside of this dead man's treasure that Snape desired so badly? So much that he would go to such extremities to get…

Snape paused for a few more minutes, expression unreadable, as if he were internally musing something. Eventually, a cold smirk curled his lip and he raised his wand, eyes void of anything but hatred. And Harry knew then that this was it, this would reveal Snape's intention and bring upon the climax of this strange, twisted situation.

What he didn't expect was the explosion.

Snape's body was flung like a limp rag, slamming against the wall and breaking through that, bouncing down the hall in such a way that Harry knew some spell had protected his body from harm. Unlike Snape, however, Harry had no protection. Due to his spiritual state, the backlash did not strike him, and he remained floating where he was. However, the hostile magic that emerged from the urn effectively attacked him and latched onto him, tearing at his being.

Harry screamed, struggling, choking on the strands that held him tightly. He immediately realized that this magic intended to kill him, to consume him until he was completely dry, and battled for dear life with all he had. All around him the same magic destroyed the room, obliterating everything but the jar where the magic originated form, expanding its power in a perfect circle.

"_SNAPE_!" Harry screamed, pleading at anything, at everything; this pain was beyond physical—it attacked his very being, his very essence, ripping away like a savage animal mauling prey. "_HELP ME GOD HELP PLEASE—_"

Desperate but still accursedly intangible, Harry could not do much but attempt to float away from the magic's tight hold. He sobbed and futilely attempted to use his translucent hands to battle away at the magic, struggling to get away from the magic's reach, outside of the area that was destroyed. The magic, almost as if it were sensing his intentions, proceeded to envelop him entirely.

It was then that it recognized something inside of Harry, and sounded the retreat, but not without a prize.

The magic drove through his barriers and clutched at his face, latching onto it. With something akin to cruel irony, it sent a wave that cut through Harry's eyes, taking it for itself, as if that would be enough to ensure that he would forget what he'd seen. Spirit or not, the effect was real, and Harry found himself screaming, blind and mad, clutching at his nonexistent eyes.

Before he registered it, he felt the connection with Snape break and the pulling of his real body calling him. The hostile magic that held his face let go, slithering away with an almost reluctant affection and a promise of future pain. Harry was speeding back, back into his body…awakening into a world of pure agony.

* * *

Thanks for reading! 


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: **Soo...another two months have flown by and I still haven't completely shaken off my funk. Alongside my annoying writer's block, it appears I am suffering from an art rock as well - throughout the entirety of my summer, I have not drawn a single commission. -proceeds to curse herself into oblivion-

Still, editting this chapter is an improvement. After DH (which I loved, despite everything), I was dead certain that I would be unable to continue writing this story since I was originally so keen on keeping to cannon - but now I've realized it's all right. Besides, I really do like this fic and I have an idea of where it's going so I want to finish it. No matter what, it's going to be completed someday...!!! And if I don't, please feel free to whack me on the head and force me to write. I seriously do not want to drop another fic like I did with "Rise from the Ashes"!

Thanks and I once again apologize for the delay!

* * *

**Chapter 19 - **_Blind Eye_

Snape shook himself awake, stifling the groan that conspired to escape his lips. He duly noted that he'd probably stretched a few muscles from the impact, and, at a closer inspection, realized he had several shards of wood buried in his chest and thighs from the collision. He raised an eyebrow when he noted the sizable hole in the wall where he'd crashed through; thank Merlin he'd had the foresight to spell himself from damage or he'd be dead now.

Carefully, he gathered himself and rose to unsteady legs, trembling slightly at the ankles. Stumbling along with one hand on the side of the hall that was still intact for balance, he sighed in relief when he saw his pile of clothing safely shoved away from the destruction. Wincing, he removed all the wooden shards that he was able to and pulled on his cloak, struggling not to cry out when his back cracked rather omnisciently. _The trials of the old_, he thought with a bitter smirk. Snape proceeded to tug on his pants and left the rest on the floor, deciding to come back to it once he was done with his business.

Feeling slightly less naked, he allowed himself a gaze towards what remained of his room. Most of the wall connecting to the hallway had been blasted away, and parts of the ceiling had collapsed as well. His bed was mere shards and ashes, and what remained of his father's corpse was splattered all across the floor in a parody of spilt paint, completely unrecognizable now. Pinching his delicate nose, Snape stepped cautiously into the space, seeking the urn. The whole place continued reeked of thick, dark magic, and he sensed parts of his old spell were still floating about, even after the curse had done its work.

Snape found it soon enough. After all, it was practically the only intact object in the room.

Almost as if mocking him, the little jar sat quite placidly on what remained of the chair, unstirred. The ashes within had not moved at all, and it seemed that even having cast the release spell, the curse he'd placed so long ago still remained unbroken. At that precise moment, the magic that remained looming about in the room shoved him from behind, causing him to fall. Cursing, the hook-nosed man stumbled forward, dropping to his knees.

_Fuck_, Snape thought, glancing around frantically for his wand. It was then that he realized that he had none; it must've disintegrated with the blast. _Double fuck_.

Another check to his reserves revealed what he had feared previously—he was magically exhausted. Not to a very serious degree, but enough to ensure that he wouldn't be able to cast even the simplest of wandless spells until he recovered with a good night's rest. And now, without a wand, he was truly defenseless. If the magic protecting the urn decided to kill him, he would practically be the equivalent of a newborn antelope against a lion. There was nothing he could do except run, and now that he was back inside the room, within the magic's grasp, it did not look like his chances of escaping were very high.

Yet, it seemed that the hostile magic had calmed and did not seek to damage him.

His magic swirled around the room, caressing his body but not harming it. Snape allowed himself to relax minutely, wondering if perhaps his magic had finally recognized him. It appeared so: when he reached towards the jar, the protective barrier that had repelled his touch fell and let him through. Still being careful, he gently encased his hands around the urn, lifting it up hesitantly.

The magic rose abruptly, almost viciously, but immediately calmed once more, slowly disappearing into the jar and ceasing to be entirely.

Snape allowed himself a blink.

"Well," he croaked aloud, "That was interesting."

_Mission accomplished_, he thought bitterly, sighing. Finally, it was all over.

He lifted the urn up to his chest and stood, wobbling slightly before managing to stand tall, unwavering. The damn thing was heavier than what he remembered; but then again, he hadn't held his mother's final ashes in a long time. Six years, to be precise. _Has it really been so long_?

Not bothering with any more formalities, Snape dug his hands into the dust-like substance, wrapping his thin, spidery fingers around a small object buried deep within. Careful not to spill any of the ashes—he still respected his mother's remains after all—he gently took out a tiny one-piece earring, made of a plain metal. It gleamed dully in the pale light filtered from the cracks in the ceiling; overall, it was quite unattractive. To any passerby, this simple accessory would've been easily overlooked, taken as a useless trinket.

It was exactly what Snape's intention had been when he'd implanted his essence within it. So simple, so unobtrusive, it would be so easily discarded that no one would ever suspect of what it truly was: a torn soul; a Horcrux.

Severus Snape had always been intrigued by the Dark Arts—of that there was no question. Experimentation on himself and other candidates came easily to him, free of any guilt or remorse. Naturally, he delved for spells, accessories, anything and everything that might expand his capabilities. Unlike many Dark wizards, however, Snape had never been interested in outright power and dominance. As long as he was strong enough to defend and maintain himself, he was satisfied.

This little trinket, this earring whose appearance betrayed nothing of its true form, was in fact, part of his own soul, split into two halves willingly.

As a young Death Eater and a favourite amongst the Dark Lord's closest circle, he'd had access to many parts of his Lord's collection of wealth. Mainly this included his vast, priceless library and assortment of other valuable magical artifacts. Buried deep in this world of books was a single tome that could not be found unless the pursuer of its contents was actively seeking it; thick and dusty, it held an incredible amount of horrendous but absolutely brilliant techniques—there within the very same spell and ritual used to rip one's soul for protective storage.

_To put a stopper to Death_.

He'd seen the magic being cast once—his Lord had shown him, Lucius and Bella once as he created his fifth, gloating over it and proclaiming his immortality. He'd loved the man almost like he loved Albus now, and had seen nothing but glory and admiration in the man's deeds. It had been enough to ensure that the process would be instilled within him forever, and naturally, he'd found it easy to repeat on his own accounts.

Although eager and rather foolish as a young teen, he was smart. He chose the object that would hold his spirit wisely, one that had a personal meaning. This little trinket was one of his mother's remaining old pieces of jewelry—the other pair had been lost when his father smashed his mother's face into the toilet, dragging her by the hair and ears across the floor until she'd fallen unconscious from the blood loss. She'd given the small, single earring to him afterwards, urging him to keep it safe, and that was what made it important.

Due to this, the small remainder of his past contained much emotion behind it. Embossed with feelings and other assortment of natural magicks, it was ideal for his purpose. He'd split his soul using his father's death, bathing in the irony and reveling in his own essence. Despite him doing the entire ritual correctly and choosing an appropriate object, the small Horcrux was still nonetheless rather crude and amateur, not nearly as powerful as the Dark Lord's own. Because of its weakness, he'd chosen a place to hide and protect it, where no one but himself would be able to access it.

The reason why he'd come to get it now was none other than he wanted to level this place. Tear it down and forget about its existence. There were so many memories buried in this decaying old hole of a place, but even he knew that if someone came to stumble upon this evidence of the dark deeds of his youth, nothing would keep him from being persecuted. There were many sins behind his past, and though he never meant to atone for most of them, this was one secret he could not let out.

Even Albus, who had the patience and acceptance of a saint, would be terribly disappointed if he ever encountered it. And Snape knew that, of the few things that could hurt him, the disappointment in his mentor's eyes would be more than enough to break him.

Besides, he'd dreamt last night of his Dark Lord's resurrection. The dream had probably been born of the hate he'd felt towards his current master, perhaps a sneaking sign of a desire for revenge against all Light that had betrayed him. In there, he had been tortured by his Lord for betraying him, betraying all sides—but no peaceful darkness took him, rejecting him even in his last moments due to the little earring he'd hidden away at some point in his teenage years, pulsing him with life-giving energy so the pain had never ended, keeping him alive in all it's blinding agony. Safe to say, he'd awoken knowing that due to his this small part of his spirit, he would never be able to die until it was destroyed.

And that was what made him fear.

Because, unlike his Dark Lord, Snape held no desire to continue living anymore. When his time came, he wanted to be able to die and let his corpse rot back into the Earth. Be it a bang or a sigh or a miserable whimper, he wanted to be able to taste Deaths' freedom the day it came to take him. Nothing would stop him from getting his rest…except the Horcrux he'd buried with his past.

And so, this trinket had to go.

Severus did not trust his pockets to keep the earring safe, so old they were in their tattered state, so he made quick use of the trinket's sharp point and nicked himself a new hole to accompany the rest of his scars. The earring was small and lodged nicely, plus his long, dreary hair covered its existence quite effectively, so wearing it as was intended—on the ear—served as a perfect hiding place. The slight pain was bearable, more so by the fact that at the moment he was riddled with other cuts from splinters, and thus was able to ignore the action of giving himself a spontaneous piercing completely.

Now all that was left was to go back. A small feeling of dread erupted in his heart for a second, but the dark man easily cast it aside. Albus would never find out about the Horcrux, he would make sure of it. The moment he regained his strength, he would destroy the trinket and suffer the repercussions of murdering a part of his soul accordingly. It wasn't as if he had a particular desire to continue living, anyway.

Snape put on the remainder of his clothes quickly, struggling not to wince when he realized he had more shards buried into his back that he could not reach. He momentarily mourned the loss of his long-time wand, but quickly got over it, knowing he had two spares back at Hogwarts and another in the folds of his coat. He extracted the extra carefully, frowning at the immediate sense of _wrongness_ emanating from it. This particular slab of wood had belonged to some nameless face or other that he'd killed under the Dark Lord's orders.

The only reason he'd taken the wand for himself was simply because the individual had put up a remarkable fight and in a moment of stupid sentimentality, he'd taken the stick in a sign of respect. Not that said dead person would appreciate his murderer using it for his own purposes, but then again, he wasn't alive to argue. Snape gave a mental shrug, knowing better than to be picky at the wand's predictable moodiness—after all, anything was better than nothing. The only trick now was to _get_ to Hogwarts. Sighing at his lack of foresight, Severus buttoned up his last shirt and threw his cloak around his shoulders, expression grim.

"Time to go home," he muttered, not missing out the irony.

He went down the stairs carefully, knowing better than to jostle his injuries in such a magickless state. Snape allowed himself a few minutes in the kitchen, taking in the haphazard rooms he was leaving behind as he walked outside. He glancing back at his old house one last time before flicking his wand, setting off the pre-cast destructive magic he'd spelled to wait his signal before entering. He left the blazing house for the muggles to find, starting off towards the nearest wizard-populated location from where he could summon the Knight Bus back to Hogsmede.

And from there, Hogwarts.

° ° °

Matilda Bonham stepped out of the office with a frown on her face, still not believing what she'd just discovered. How dare they? Imprisoning a muggle! She did not know his crimes, but she knew very well that imprisoning muggles within magical prisons was definitely against the law. They should be taken care of by their own people, not wizards! What was going on here?

"Sir!" she called out angrily as she stomped to where the three men stood just outside in the hall, "Sir, I must speak to you at once!"

The three aurors turned to look at her sharply, faces alarmed, wands in their hands in an instant.

"Miss Bonham! Is everything all right?" the first auror asked professionally, pointing his wand in the direction of the open room.

"Did the prisoner harm you at all?" The youngest one spouted, rolling up his sleeves in an apparent gesture of threat, "We'll take care of him if he has!"

"No! He has done nothing; he's still unconscious," the mediwitch said hastily, and then her features hardened once more. "But sir, I must ask you…why in nine hells is there a muggle in this prison?!"

The three aurors blinked almost in unison.

"Muggle?" the so-called Dawlish barked after a second of befuddlement had passed, his huge chest heaving up and down with his laughter. "No madam! There is no muggle within these walls, I can assure you."

"We do not keep muggles in Azkaban, as far as I am aware," Robards agreed, eyebrows narrowed until they were a firm line in his forehead. "Perhaps you have confused him for a squib? I am not aware of his state, but without a wand, not even a powerful wizard could cast magic within these walls. Are you sure you're correct in leaping to this conclusion?"

"Positively," Matilda said without a doubt. "I was scaling his magical power in order to view how much of his reserves were down from his injuries, but found nothing! Nothing at all, sir. And even squibs have a bit of magic within them, if only enough to be able to see and participate in our world. But this young man…this _child_! He has nothing!"

Robards looked troubled, eyes distant. Dawlish was staring at her as if she'd grown another head, and the youngest one—McKinnon, if her memory served her correctly—looked simply lost.

"Are you sure?" Robards came again, insisting.

"_Yes_," the mediwitch repeated, exasperated, "Check if you want! I will not tolerate this, sir, no. This is inhumane, and it breaks all sorts of Wizard-Muggle laws! If he is a criminal, I understand the need to keep him behind bars, just like all other prisoners. But as a muggle, he has enough rights to ensure him a muggle prison, not…not _Azkaban_!"

"He could not have survived a year in Solitary if he were a muggle, Miss Bonham. And even now I have trouble believing a wizard could do such a feat!" Robards spoke quietly, gruffly, as if it pained him to say it. "But I will come with you. Show me the spell, and I will cast it."

"Come then," she said harshly, "And see for yourself what your little prison has done to him."

His hand snaked out and grabbed her arm with a tight grip. He forced her to turn around and look at him, his own eyes bright with such an inner fury that frightened her. "I am well aware of what has happened to him, Miss Bonham," Robards hissed sharply, his voice almost dangerous. "And let me assure you I do not tolerate such horrid acts upon any human being! I promise you no such thing will ever happen again under my jurisdiction. But these are prisoners—murders, Death Eaters! And this prison…no, _Azkaban_! Azkaban is a necessary evil in this world, just like you healers are necessary goods."

She stared at him and forced her arm out of his grasp, almost tempted to spit at him. She drew closer to him, so close that he could see the lines creasing her weary, hardened face. "I know all about this world, mister Robards, and I have seen more than my share of such evils in my lifetime. This prison, this…this _hell_ on Earth! No living being should be submitted to such a terrible place—none at all!

"You may speak of your profound regrets for the horrible treatment each and every one of these prisoners suffers through every day, but I know quite clearly that you will not lift a finger to aid them," the mediwitch continued scathingly, "I may be a necessary good, and I take pride in that, but these places were built by wizards—and by default, you and I are the very embodiments of a walking Azkaban. We are in no more need of evil than what we already bear!"

"Do not speak to the commander in that way, Miss." The youngest spoke softly, but his own eyes were alight with conviction. "He is a good man, a good auror. And besides, don't we have a prisoner to be looking after?"

They all turned to look at McKinnon, even Dawlish, all surprised by his calm interference. Matilda drew back as if startled but immediately nodded sharply, drawing herself up and speaking once again in her professional tone. "You're right. Come on in, and I will show you."

All four turned to walk into the room, and were startled to see the 'unconscious' prisoner writhing on the table, very much alive and in pain. Immediately they rushed in, bombarded with ear-splitting screams that were undoubtedly emerging from the patient's own throat once they crossed the Silencing wards.

"_What's happening_?!" Robards roared over the heart-stopping shrieks.

His sporadic jerking and struggling had eventually caused him and several of the potions sitting beside him to topple over the table, crashing onto the ground in one great heap of glass and body, blood pooling about his face from where he'd apparently fallen face-first into the broken remains of a previously bottled solution.

"I don't know!" Matilda yelled, pushing McKinnon out of the way in order to get over to the table. She ran to the prisoner's side, attempting to hold the skeleton of a man down, amazed by the strength he apparently still had as his body buckled under her. She turned him around and gasped at the quantity of blood pooling about his face, smearing her robes as the shrieking man thrashed in her hold. The prisoner's eyes were wide but unseeing, arms thrashing and flailing around wildly as he screamed and screamed, almost as if an unknown creature was mauling him to death right before their eyes.

Dawlish dodged around the mediwitch and pointed his wand firmly, seeking a clear shot. "_Stupefy_!" he snarled once he was sure he wouldn't accidentally hit Matilda, eyes going wide when he realized the spell hadn't had any effect, simply disappearing moments before touching the prisoner's body.

"_Stupefy_!" McKinnon himself gave a try, and this time the red beam shot true and the prisoner stopped struggling, slumping down into unconsciousness. Then, out of nowhere, the balls of his eyes seemingly exploded, splattering his face with more blood and a mix of veins and white mass. It almost appeared that the man was weeping red rivulets from the two gaping black holes that remained of his eyes, and all four of them had to stop and stare for a split second in horror at what they were witnessing.

"Oh Merlin," Matilda whispered in shock. Almost immediately however, her mediwitch instincts snapped her back into reality and she got to work. She drew her wand and cast a number of spells too fast for any of the aurors to catch, her breath coming short when she came back with the results.

"What happened?" Robards repeated sharply, gathering up his composure as he tried not to tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding before his eyes in disgust. "What the _fuck_ just happened right now?"

She shook her head repeatedly, looking at him with an almost lost expression. "I-I don't know," she whispered, stunned speechless, "He's just been cursed and I don't know why—there's no sign—there's no reason…I just…" she took a shuddering breath, and visibly contained her emotions, nostrils flaring in determination, "But I can still save his eyes." She lifted her wand and started casting even more spells, sweat dripping down her brow as she muttered out a string of almost incomprehensive babble.

Matilda turned to the nearest man and barked, never stopping her smooth wand waving. "Get me the only violet potion I have in my satchel, now!" McKinnon didn't move, staring at her as if she was the weirdest creature on earth. "_Well_? What are you waiting for? We're under a time limit!I mean _now_!"

"Get it together man!" Robards snapped, and McKinnon sprang into action. He fumbled around the potions nearest to him until he located the small purple vial, handing it almost hesitantly, his fingers trembling slightly as the shock began to settle in.

"Thank you," she breathed out and then continued to whisper some sort of sing-song chant, giving her wand a swift flick and screwing open the potion with her other hand, pouring it seemingly carelessly into the prisoner's open eyes. Before them the man's ruined remains of eyes stopped bleeding and began to puff out again, slowly repairing themselves from the inside out. The three stared at the scene with unblinking stares, Dawlish standing stiffly to one side and McKinnon staring in shock, frozen in his spot, trembling visibly. Robards merely looked on without any telltale emotion, almost as if drinking in the scene with a vague, detatched fascination.

Matilda worked for another minute before slumping back against the wall, panting slightly. Her wand was dangling from her limp grasp, her chest heaving up and down from exertion. The prisoner had not moved since being cast unconscious, but his eyes were intact again even though there was a very visible sign of pinkish white scarring all along around his sockets, almost as if some acid had eaten away at the skin and it had just been recently healed.

In addition, the shattered potions and accompanying glass beakers that had fallen alongside him had effectively cut into his face in several places, all scrapes healing except for a particularly nasty one that had slashed off a part of his left eyebrow and covered the distance between his forehead and lower lip in a jagged, bending line. Before their gazes his previously exploded eyelids were slowly regenerating themselves as well, climbing over his eyes and seemingly closing them in a slow-motion wave.

"Merlin," McKinnon breathed as he gawked at the scene unfurling before him, face quite pale. "_Fuck_…that's just…"

None of them were quite sure of what to say; in the space of a few minutes, everything had gone to hell and been recovered again. All four were shaken, still very much unbelieving of what they had witnessed. However, Gawain was the first to recover sufficiently enough to make a coherent comment.

"Madam…" Robards ventured softly, breaking the heavy silence that had descended upon them all, "That was …well…it was really quite…_impressive_, crudely speaking. But I must ask: what do you mean by _cursed_?"

"It is as I said," the mediwitch said dully, staring at her patient with a melancholy, distant gaze, "This was a result of being attacked by a very Dark, powerful leeching curse. I have seen many of these cases before, all during the…during the war."

Dawlish's wand was out in an instant, startling them all momentarily. "You!" He snarled, "You cast it on him!"

"What?!" her head snapped around to him, shocked at the accusation.

There came no responding reaction from his companions except a rather piercing glare from his superior and a disturbed glance from McKinnon. Furious, the large man looked at all of them, eyes wild. "What are you waiting for?! She could kill us all while you stand there unarmed!"

"Dawlish," Robards growled dangerously, a hand over his own just in case as he realized the man was clearly momentarily out of his mind, "Lower your wand, _now_."

Dawlish jerked his weapon in their direction now, sweat dripping down his brow. "Listen to yourself Gawain! There was no one in this room with the prisoner but her! No one could have cast the spell except her! She's a Dark wizard I tell you!"

"_Dawlish_," Robards repeated, louder this time, taking out his wand slowly from its holster. "Lower it. Lower it _now_ or I will not be held accountable for my actions."

The auror was hopeless now, driven wild with rage and paranoia. "She's a Death Eater! I know she is! I bet she's come to free all of her fucking friends and kill us all! And you're with her, I bet! Oh Merlin below my nose, my own superior…! _Don't move another muscle or I'll kill you_!!"

"_Stupefy_!" McKinnon snarled from behind the burly man, having crept around Dawlish while he was distracted, watching in satisfaction as the muscled lard dropped like a sack.

Gawain's eyes were alight with fury as he stared at the unconscious Dawlish, arm trembling slightly. "My own men," he whispered fiercely, almost to himself, "My own _men_…" His brow was hooded for a moment before he lowered his wand, holstering it quickly and gathering his composure as much as he was able. "Good job, McKinnon," he said tonelessly, "His actions will be reported immediately." He turned to the mediwitch, eyes clearly expressing his grief. "I am truly sorry for all the action you've seen today, Miss. I will write a personal apology to you and St Mungo's for this terrible display. I promise you he is usually not like this at all."

"Don't worry about it," Matilda said softly, still staring at the large man that had been felled abruptly, "Azkaban can bring the worst out of any man." She snapped out of it and jerked her gaze to Robards' own. "No, in fact, I have a request to make."

"Name it," Robards said, setting his shoulders stiffly and standing up strait, "And I will do my best to grant it."

"Your man was partly right—there was no way he could've been cursed with this Dark spell unless someone did it to him while we were outside. There is something in this room that caused it, and I want you to find it. For your safety and the men who occupy this room, please…" She took a deep breath, and locked eyes with him, "Finally, send this prisoner to St Mungo's and I promise I will treat him fully there. Otherwise, I'm afraid he may die if not taken care of."

"Done," Robards said instantly, but shook his head a second later. "Though the last request I cannot comply with. There is no way a prisoner can leave Azkaban unless the highest authority grants you permission."

Matilda's eyes were hard, glinting with a now familiar determination. "Will the highest authority from St Mungo's be enough?"

McKinnon butted in then, his voice slightly panicked. "You can't do that," he said, and turned to his superior. "Can she?"

Robards blinked, glancing over at the unconscious prisoner before turning back to look at both of them, "If you can convince the Minister, Miss Bonham, then I will be unable to defy a direct order. But I do not know how you can do that."

"I can do that," Matilda said firmly. "Until then, I want you to keep this man in the best condition you are able to. Keep him away from other prisoners; preferably in a quarantined, _sterilized_ zone—I may have been able to hold back the curse but I do not know the nature of the magic or the caster. That is why I want him in St Mungo's—a number of experts in the Dark Arts and their curse's cures are there. I, in fact, know a particularly highly adept man who will undoubtedly be able to figure this case out and reverse it accordingly."

"If you can convince the Minister, Miss," Robards said quietly, apparently having reached his decision, "Then I have no reason to withhold the prisoner further."

McKinnon seemed lost, sputtering disbelief but falling silent when Gawain motioned him to be quiet.

"Good," she said firmly, "I'll go do that now. But, mark my words sir, I will be back to take a look at the rest of the prisoners in here. Seeing this one, I cannot help but wonder at the state of the rest."

"We will be delighted to have you," Robards said as he extended his palm, truthful this time. "Having a mediwitch nearby does not sound like too bad an idea, now that I think of it. We would all feel safer with you around."

"As long as I am of use, sir, then I will be available." Matilda smiled and shook his hand, noting his grip was firm and in many ways reassuring, "Now, I must be off."

"Very well; McKinnon, escort her back outside and call the ferryman. I will deal with Dawlish and the prisoner. Until then, Miss Bonham—and please, call me Gawain. I feel ever so old when people call me 'sir'."

"All right," Matilda nodded smartly. "Until then, Gawain. Take care of him."

"This way, miss," Raff murmured quietly, leading her out the door.

McKinnon was itching to go report to Benjy. This news had to reach Dumbledore immediately, especially since it directly concerned the man they were supposed to be watching. But Robards' direct orders came first: not only to keep his cover, but to keep his job. He didn't want to know what would happen to Dawlish now that the idiot had pointed his wand at a superior.

For the moment, he set those thoughts away from his mind. Motioning for Matilda to follow him, he set off a brisk pace, his insides twisting at the thought of how the leader of the Order of the Phoenix would react to these happenings.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please drop by a comment if you have the time, I certainly appreciate it and promise to respond! 


	20. Chapter 20

**Authors Note: **My keyboard is screwed - I cannot type apostrophies nor spaces nor question marks since those keys are ruined. How do I get these spaces, you ask...using copy-paste. Yes. I feel like Im typing freaking morse code. SO IRRITATING LOL TT; So I havent been able to type further than this. Once I get yet another keyboard, Ill start writing the next chapter. Until then, I will have to plow through stuff with my handy dandy ctrl-v DD:

Hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 20 - **_Coming Home_

Harry did not so much wake as come alive screaming, clawing at his eyes as his body exploded with unceasing agony. He could think of nothing but how his face was burning, how much it fucking hurt to take even the slightest of erratic breathes. Unwillingly, his weakened corpse jerked with violent spasms, causing him to scream even more due to the jarring movements. Muscles contracted and bones creaked, and all around him he could swear he heard yells and cries but could not more identify them than what was killing him right now.

Gravity seemed to clutch hold of his navel and he found himself falling for what seemed like forever before hitting the cold ground, barely managing to perceive the indisputable sound of breaking glass and _crack _of a fractured, possibly broken nose. Even more pain flooded into him as he felt what seemed like razor sharp needles stabbed into his every pore, noting in a distant part of his mind that he was bleeding something awful and would probably not survive this attack considering his deteriorated state.

His eyes registered a red beam before blessed oblivion gripped him and took him under once again.

Throughout the duration of his unconsciousness, the agony had not ceased—merely dulled to a bearable degree. Still, when Harry awoke again, he did indeed feel distinctly better. For a moment he could not recall anything, but the memories returned soon enough. The first thing he did was hesitantly open his eyes, and subsequently was terribly relieved when he registered he could still see as well as one could when slightly myopic. Apparently, whatever had been done to him had also greatly reduced his eyesight problems, for which he was ridiculously grateful.

That is, until he noticed that the entirety of the vision on his right was blackened up; the only thing that impeded him from breaking down crying was the fact that the skin on his face felt far too tender to allow him to scrunch his face into any semblance of grief.

Coherent thought was still too advanced for him at this stage of roused confusion to even attempt to think properly, and thus he was unable to share with himself the irony and unfailing unfairness of his entire situation. Merely, Harry clutched at his face once more, shuddering as he felt his thin layer of skin keenly through his fingertips, barely cheerful enough to be relieved when he noted that he at least still had an eye and not an empty socket. Moody didn't need a look-alike companion, after all. Harry vaguely doubted the scruffy old auror would appreciate the sentiment anyway.

What eventually ripped him away from his inner melancholy at the fact that he was quite possibly half blind and more scarred than ever, was the sound of approaching footsteps; a sound he'd come very close to being intimately familiar with, and had come to recognize as a sign of possible incoming danger. Because of this, Harry gathered himself and retreated as quietly as he could into the shadows of his new cell, hoping it was dark enough to hide all of him. He was not familiar with this new setting, having not explored nor looked around enough to map it out, but he knew the advantages of corners and lack of windows; he intended to exploit it as best he could to make him as inconspicuous and unnoticeable as possible.

His caution proved unnecessary and rendered void, however, when the incoming individual spoke a quiet but firm _Lumos_ and illuminated the place. Harry drew back even further, hissing as the light attacked his weak retinas, momentarily taking away the rest of the sight he possessed. Mad with returning agony, the prisoner hastily rubbed at his eyes in some hope of regaining his sight, moaning when the action brought even more pain.

"Oh! Hey, I'm sorry about that," he heard whoever was outside of his cell say softly, muttering a _Nox _and quelling the sharp light instantly. "I thought you were still out…you okay in there?"

Harry knew he'd heard the voice before, quite recently too, but could not for the life of him recognize its soft baritone. Still temporarily rendered sightless, Harry opted not to respond at all, curling into himself in hopes of providing as much protection to his injured cranium as possible. After all, he could live without limbs—however reluctantly—but he most definitely could not live without his head.

"Hey look, I'm coming in, all right? I'm armed, so don't try any stunts."

The warning was useless, since Harry wouldn't have done anything even if he had been in possession of all his senses. Long had the time of rebellion gone, and the veteran Azkaban prisoner knew better than to attempt to attack an auror in any setting while in clear disadvantage.

And even those that did try to initiate a struggle knew the tactic was quite stupid unless they were sure they had an advantage _after_ the encounter. After all, many prisoners had defeated a careless auror or two during their time—they simply never even got a chance to flee up or down their level because none of them had a secure plan. Usually those that managed such a feat were overpowered almost instantly by either Dementors or the remaining patrolling aurors themselves; and even if a prisoner got lucky and was able to overcome both, the freezing waters and terrible conditions would ensure no escape, sucking the frail bodies and taking their corpses to the depths.

You could die trying, literally, and still fail to completely leave Azkaban, claimed by the sea.

The sound of the sliding gate tore Harry back from his morbid thoughts. He allowed himself a peek through his arm and knee, almost sobbing in frustration when he realized he had to tilt his head to the left slightly in order to get a full view.

"Hi again," the auror said simply, standing a few feet away from the prisoner, for which Harry was eternally grateful. He didn't like the idea of being so close to someone who could potentially hurt him—even more so in his disadvantaged state. "I'm not sure if you remember me; by your actions I highly doubt it."

The auror paused to sneer, as if remembering something distasteful. His expression changed swiftly back to a solemn one, however, and Harry wasn't quite sure he hadn't just imagined the Snape-like scowl. "I trust you're feeling slightly better now, right, Harry James?"

Harry blinked, still slightly disconcerted when he annoyingly noted that no matter how much he blinked his right eye still could not see. His actions were involuntary, almost like an unconscious tick, which made it all the more frustrating. It was almost like wanting to wipe some grime that was blocking one's vision—but this darkness was permanent.

"My name is Benjy Fenwick," the auror continued, not exactly surprised by the prisoner's silence. "You may've or may not have heard of me, it does not matter." Then, this 'Fenwick' paused again, and drew closer, as if about to share a secret. "Do you know of a man named Albus Dumbledore, Harry James?"

At first Harry felt uncomfortable with the closeness of the other man, but he allowed himself to relax enough to process the question. His mind was still slightly muddled from confusion and what appeared to be the delayed affects of a rather strong stunning spell, but otherwise he was quickly regaining control of his facilities. It surprised him that the auror was asking him of Dumbledore—was this some sort of trick? Was he in league with the Headmaster? A few moments later Harry decided it was best to act according to his role—that is, a prisoner of this timeline. It would not due for the other to suspect him if he sounded too knowledgeable of the powerful wizard.

Slowly, Harry nodded his head, murmuring a very hoarse "Yes" to accompany the motion. He grimaced slightly at the jarring ache this brought his throat, wondering vaguely if someday he would perhaps finally be able to walk and talk and not feel pain while doing so.

"Good, then you aren't quite as gone as I thought you were. He has been seeking to speak to you for some time now, so you may encounter him very soon during your absence."

Harry was baffled. What? For a moment, he felt a tremendous relief, his first thoughts being that perhaps Dumbledore had found out about his plight and was going to send him home, to his own time; immediately after, however, his logic trampled this train of contemplation and shoved him back into reality.

"Why…?" Harry questioned quietly, coughing. _Why would the Headmaster want to talk to me_? After all, he was nothing but another Azkaban inmate. Dumbledore did not know him here, as far as he knew, and he'd done nothing to spark the old man's interest. Or had he…? Well, if he had, he wasn't aware of it.

"You are going to be sent to St Mungo's very soon, but do not think that this means you are free," Fenwick's tone was low, dangerous, the threat very clear, "You will be accompanied at all times by an auror, and your activity will be monitored twenty-four seven. Is that clear?"

Harry stared at the man, attempting to process this statement.

And stared.

For one, he was still trying to catch up with the Dumbledore comment—and now…? _Wait a second_…

"Mungo's?" Harry croaked, wincing when he realized just how badly he'd butchered up the word. It was almost as if he'd said 'Moo-goes'. "…what? Why?"

_Good question_, Benjy thought dryly.

He himself hadn't been able to believe it when Gawain had explained it to him—the whole stunt about Dark curses being flung around by an unknown assaulter and giving one prisoner special treatment had sprung up more than a few dozen alarm bells inside of his head. For the next couple of days, all aurors sitting about in Azkaban had been on full alert, cautious of this unidentified enemy. When nothing had come, they'd relaxed only marginally; the air was still full of tension even now.

Still, he trusted Gawain. And, although the entire idea of sending this prisoner—whom for some curious coincidence just happened to be the man he was supposed to keep an eye out for the Headmaster—to St Mungo's sounded more than slightly deranged, he would go along with it. His second week of annual Azkaban duty was miraculously over today—Fenwick had to stay another three days and Crow had already left—and so he was able to sign up as a voluntary escort and routine guard for the prisoner while he was out.

It was suspiciously convenient that all the dates coincided; not one to believe in Fate, Benjy darkly wondered if someone had set them all up. Eventually, though, he decided not to curse his luck and go along with it.

Dumbledore had also been alerted of the situation and had expressed, in his own disturbingly cheerful manner, that he was pleased of the outcome. Benjy himself had reported to the man, and swelled with pride at the thought that he'd so far done flawlessly. The Headmaster vaguely expressed his unchanged desire to meet up with the young man—and thus needlessly implied Fenwick's continued vigilance over the prisoner—but did not clarify further than that. Still unsure of the exact reason for why he was keeping an eye out for this dirty, like-any-other prisoner, Benjy did not know if to act cruelly or kindly upon his target. And thus, he settled upon his usual attitude; a mix between blunt and distantly warm.

"You were apparently struck with a Dark curse sometime during your examination with the mediwitch," Fenwick ventured to explain, "I'm not too sure of the details, though, and I've been told you were unconscious so that makes two of us in the dark. Can you recall anything?"

_Snape_, Harry thought instantly. _And pain_. Lots of it.

He would've continued on that train of thought, since he himself was just beginning to recall what had happened and was curious enough to want to review it in order to catch the finer details, but knew better than to track off and reveal more than what he could chew. And so, for the moment, he remained silent, keeping what he had witnessed to himself, deciding to see if he could go and reach Snape again sometime soon—preferably when he was alone and unbothered.

"No," he murmured aloud in response to Fenwick's raised eyebrow of expectation, adopting a slightly dazed and helpless tone to hopefully throw off any further questions, "I-I don't remember…"

The so-called Benjy apparently bought it, eyes clearly softening in some semblance of sympathy. Gesturing towards the still-open gate of his cell, he nodded at the prisoner. "Well, the rest of the group should be here in no time. You will be stunned again to transport you out of here; just so you're prepared."

As if summoned, numerous loud steps echoed down the corridor, and a troop of about six aurors armed to the teeth stood outside his cell, all staring at him. Harry felt the stupid urge to curl into a tighter ball and start mumbling about not being there, but he managed to quell it. Defiantly, he stared at them all with the only eye he had left, pleasantly delighted when a few of the younger ones that had met his eyes shuddered at his scarred, milky-white stare, shifting nervously; on two, he even managed to make them look away entirely, making Harry feel far too smug.

"It's time, Benjy," a familiar voice spoke up from one of the six, singling out the good man that had assured Harry his return seemingly an eternity ago in his old cell.

"Of course, Gawain," Fenwick nodded, and extracted a polished wand from a holster located on his hip, pointing it at the prisoner lightly. For a moment, Harry was tempted to snarl defensively and attempt to protect himself, but stifled the instinct, knowing it would lead to nothing good.

"_I will be there when you wake up_," Benjy mouthed clearly in such a way that only Harry could see, flicking his wand before the prisoner could even consider thanking him. There were no words, but the magic nonetheless swooped past Harry's defiant barriers, gripping his consciousness like a vice.

A powerful sleep overcame him, pulling him down into the welcoming darkness once again.

° ° °

It hadn't been easy getting a signed permission to bring an Azkaban prisoner into the hospital from both St Mungo's Director and the current auror Head, but she had done it. And, quite remarkably, she had managed to gather all of the files and filled out all of the necessary forms in the space of a single sleepless night. Granted, being a decedent of the original founder Mungo Bonham and well connected through favours in high places did play a large part in facilitating the process, but it was still quite an achievement for a single mediwitch. Getting in contact with the Minister had ultimately involved far too much paperwork and his signature was worth the same as the ones she'd already gathered, so Matilda crossed him off the list.

Her unofficial written excuse for temporarily removing a potentially dangerous Azkaban inmate was simple: it detailed the effects the Dark curse could potentially do, making sure to write the essay in such a way that it blatantly insinuated the possibilities that the hex could spread like a disease and eventually obliterate all wizard kind. She was trusted for being a firm and level-headed witch, and thus found no further conflict in her decision apart from a few outraged coworkers and ruffled companions at the thought of being near such a dangerously cursed individual. Through a few more favours, the whole ordeal remained hidden from the media, and thus no one outside a small circle of confidence knew of the shipment.

Despite it's difficulty, Matilda was inspired. If she were to expand her capabilities, perhaps she could aid even more unfortunate inmates through this method. _It could work_, she thought excitedly. _It could really work_. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, she could set up a specific organization dedicated to aiding these men who, because of society's scorn for them, refused to help them and instead treated them worse than any animal.

But for now, she knew, she had to take care of the one she'd shipped over first before thinking ahead. Quickening her steps, she headed towards the room where the prisoner would be transferred to—a highly quarantined, protected section of Mungo's. It was far away from the regular rooms, thereby ensuring that no wandering wizard or witch would stumble upon this corridor—but, because of this, the entire place seemed very lonely and gloomy, not at all like what Matilda believed the institution should appear as.

As she walked into the room, she was glad that she was a medical personnel rather than one of those beefy guards that were currently standing outside the heavily warded door, day in and day out. It must be very boring to stand around and do nothing except appear to look menacing, she thought, careful not to look any of them in the eye as she closed the door behind her.

° ° °

Hogwarts was surprisingly quiet, even if it was already late. Snape was almost half-expecting to stumble upon a snogging couple or some adventurous first year—but nothing. His trek back to his room was uninterrupted and silent, accompanied only by his soft footsteps and the constant hum of the castle's ever-active magic.

If not for those reassuring sounds, the place may have been abandoned.

Curious, but not enough to investigate, Snape allowed himself a moment to entertain the notion of heading up to Dumbledore's rooms to inform him of his return—but quickly dismissed the idea. He was tired and he could still feel the persistent trickle of blood on his back which was practically begging for treatment; that was enough reason for him to stay in his chambers and drop down dead as soon as he was finished cleaning himself of the filth that had gathered up on his short trip.

Once he spotted himself in the small, dusty mirror in his bathroom, he became infinitely grateful that no one had commented on his appearance. He looked, simply put, terrible. In fact, it had amazed him that the usually chatter-filled Ernie had remained blissfully silent the whole journey to Hogsmede on the Knight Bus, even if he had looked perfectly fine. The elderly man was known to find talk in anything; he seriously needed a talking pet head or something to keep him suitably distracted.

Carefully, he cleaned his face and removed his clothes, grimacing when he realized he couldn't vanish them to the elf's quarters since he was so low on magic. Instead, he discarded them to one side, deciding to send them off later, once he was feeling better. This done, he paused to inspect his splinter-ridden body, sighing in pain when he realized just how much damage he'd done to his entire body. It wasn't nearly as much as what he suffered through a regular Death Eater meeting, but he hadn't experienced so much collective ache in over a year now; vaguely he wondered if this heightened awareness of pain came with old age.

Scrunching up his face in distaste, Snape began to remove as many wooden shards as he could, gritting his teeth every time a yelp threatened to escape his lips. _This is pathetic,_ he thought to himself as he pulled out a particularly large one and almost cried out. _I am so pathetic. Since when have I become so vulnerable_? Disgusted with himself, Snape closed his eyes tightly and violently gripped another splinter, ripping it off of his body fiercely, causing a jagged wound to spurt open in the process.

This time, he welcomed the pain, smirking bitterly at his ugly reflection as he saw tears gather at the corner of his eyes.

° ° °

Albus was not worried. Severus could take care of himself just fine; he was old enough and had gone on deadlier expeditions, after all. He wasn't worried in the slightest.

Or so he continued to tell himself.

He had intended to trace his young Potions Master using a simple tracking charm, but had been unable to without the other noticing. Immediately after Severus had departed school grounds, he'd attempted to place a suitable Scrying spell from his room to view the man from a chalice. It had worked well enough—until Severus had entered some place where the charm had been canceled.

The Headmaster did not want to pry on his former student's business, but he could not help but worry for him, as they had left on such bitter terms. He truly cared for the dark young man, and it worried him to know that perhaps the poor boy was in some sort of location where even his own incredibly powerful spells were unable to take effect.

Forcefully—and not without Fawkes's ever-patient input—he had stopped himself from attempting to continue tracking his young protégé. Severus was safe, he told himself, he was fine; he just needed some time alone. He would come back—he had promised, hadn't he?

Dumbledore sighed to himself, placing his head in his hands. He loved Severus Snape in his own way; he felt the man was his responsibility, and not just because he'd ignored the poor boy so terribly when he was younger. He'd grown fond of the man, he admitted it now, and he could not bear to see the other so haunted and sad, despite the fact that this was how he usually was all the time. If it was in his power, Albus was willing to do many things in order to please Severus—as long as it was nothing too radical or harmful to his ultimate goals.

How the dark spy had managed to worm so close to his heart, Albus sincerely did not know, but what he was aware of was simply that the Potions Master had somehow done so quite skillfully, and Albus was not sure he would be able to push the man away again.

Before he could re-convince himself to check up on Snape, the fireplace near his desk flared a bright green. For a moment, Dumbledore wondered if he could simply feign ignorance and not answer for once in his life—but quickly he shot down the childish notion and gathered up his demeanor, cheerfully greeting the incoming messenger as soon as he accepted the call.

"Oh! Benjy," he said with a charming smile as soon as he identified the face, "What news do you bring?"

"Is the line secure?" Fenwick asked carefully, and Dumbledore was amused at how much the young man was appearing to become like Moody as every day went by.

"Yes, of course," Albus nodded encouragingly.

"Target Harry James suffered through some sort of Dark curse a few hours ago while under the incoming mediwitch's treatment, and now is being transferred to Saint Mungo's in a secluded ward." Benjy stated, biting his lower lip. "I've secured a position as a guard, but I'm not quite sure if there's some higher machination involved concerning his transfer. I could get nothing out of my superiors and none of the reachable medical staff are aware of the move."

"Dark curse?" Dumbledore asked curiously, mentally running through the possibilities. "Is it fatal?"

"I'm not sure," Fenwick muttered in seeming shame, the green flames that made up his face turning a slight purple around his cheeks. "But I don't think so. Unfortunately, as far as I was able to gather in the commotion, the prisoner lost an eye due to lacerations to his face from broken glass and may have sustained further injuries, but I have not had a chance to see him since then. In fact, I don't have much time left before I have to leave; I apologize, Headmaster."

"That is quite all right," Albus said kindly, "But please continue to look into this issue and report to me in full when you have the time. Saint Mungo's, you say? It will be easier to contact him now, then. Good job, Benjy, please keep up your good work. I do believe I will be paying a visit to him very soon, perhaps in a few hours. Can you arrange this?"

"Of course, Headmaster. I'll send you a Floo call as soon as I am able." The young man paused, and glanced at the Headmaster uncertainly, "I didn't wake you, did I?" It was very early—the sun had not yet begun to pour into the room.

"Not at all, Benjy," Albus smiled pleasantly, "I strive to always be available. Thank you very much for your report."

"You're welcome," Benjy blushed again, and beamed at the older man, "I shall go visit the prisoner now to ready your arrival."

And with that, the young man was gone. Albus carefully reclined in his seat and sighed again, rubbing his temples. Behind him, Fawkes trilled a comforting tune before flapping over to the arm of his chair.

"And so the plot thickens, eh, Fawkes?" Dumbeldore smiled tiredly. "A curse…I am very curious about this young Harry James now. I do believe I will come see him very soon. What do you think?"

Fawkes looked to the distance somberly, before trilling an agreeable note.

"Yes, I do agree. Perhaps I shall go now; but in disguise, yes? Please forward all of my messages to Minerva, if you are all right with that. I do hope Severus comes back soon; hopefully he will be back by the time I return. Until then, my friend, I have to check up on this curious young prisoner of ours…"

Dumbledore heaved himself to his feet and paused, double-thinking his decision. It didn't take long to dismiss his doubts though—after all, an old man has to have his adventures now and then. A small, out-of-place smile crept upon his ancient face as a decidedly Slytherin plan began to unravel inside his head.

* * *

I love Albus! Hes such a curiously dark character, but at the same time so amazingly light-filled that its almost like hes two people! I am really tempted to write a Gellert/Albus fic right now...alas...stupid keyboard...I shall draw fanart instead haha!

Anyway, thanks for reading! Please drop by a review if you can!


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note:** Well, here's Chapter 21. It is hell trying to type with my crappy keyboard; Ctrl-V is my friend, but it tends to get quite tedious after a while. Urgh! Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this new installment. I apologize for always taking so long; I seem to be extending stuff too much but don't know how to work around it. Some direct Severus / Harry interaction will happen next chapter, I believe - unless I have to bump it up to the next chapter. Enjoy!

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**Chapter 21 - **_Wounded Drifting_

For the first time in a very long time, Harry dreamed of nothing more volatile than a gentle breeze caressing his face. Before him stood his old friends, their blur of frizzled brown and flaming orange a welcome memory. He recalled Hermione and Ron with such precision that he felt as if he'd last seen them but a few minutes beforehand; they were even wearing the clothes Harry had last seen them on back at the Hogwarts train so many years ago, smiling the same smiles.

They were standing peacefully on Hogwarts grounds, nothing but them and the wind for company. Ron was waving his Firebolt in one hand, grinning that stupid old grin of his that inevitably made Harry want to smile as well, yelling something indistinct that seemed like a beckoning call. Hermione was rolling her eyes at their antics, but her smile was visible and fond on her face.

It was as if he'd never disappeared.

Feeling slightly guilty, Harry walked along with them, not by their side but half a step behind them, soaking up the sun, closing his eyes in ecstasy. Time did not matter in this realm—if at all, it was fleeting. Hermione was berating him about some trifle homework assignment or other and Ron was groaning good-naturedly at her lecture, hands behind his neck, broomstick still clutched assuredly in his grasp. They strode over to the lake, cheering when the squid briefly splashed a cheerful fin on the surface of the water, as if waving. In the process, the trio was splashed with a few droplets and they giggled, wiping themselves off.

Harry raised a hand to swipe at his wet face, grinning only up until he felt the scars, wherefore a sad frown settled on his brow. He glanced at his friends, but they did not seem to notice.

"Come on, Harry." Hermione told him with a wave, gesturing to the looming castle. "Come with us."

"Yeah, mate!" Ron agreed with a freckled smile. "Come back with us."

"I want to," Harry tried to say, but nothing came from his throat. He felt as if he were glued to the ground, unable to move. His friends began to walk away, still crying out encouragement but not returning to help him, either. Eventually, they disappeared into the distance, and Harry was left behind, struggling against the invisible bonds that did not allow him to shift at all. "Don't go," Harry croaked emptily. "Please don't leave me."

Only the gentle wind answered his cry, chilling his face.

º º º

When Harry awoke once more, he found himself lying—not on the cold Azkaban floor as he'd grown to expect—but in a bed, for the first time in years.

It is not as comfortable as he had remembered, nor was its presence in any way reassuring to his current plight. In fact, the bed only served to heighten his alarm at his relocation to this new, foreign territory. Still, despite his increasing panic, Harry knew he could not do anything to change it. Logic was returning to him and it didn't take too long for his mind to catch up to the memories and recall the auror's promise.

Glancing around the room proved no relief, either. Benjy Fenwick was nowhere in sight, nor any other living being for that matter. As far as Harry knew, he was completely and utterly alone. No sound emanated from the very visible door, though Harry was smart enough to realize that this was probably the product of a Silencing charm. Unused to the softer, spongier texture of the bed, however, was quickly making the prisoner unbearably uncomfortable. For so long he'd grown to find reassurance in the cold, hard granite that made up his cell…this mattress, Harry thought savagely, sought to deceive him into a false sense of security; and this immediately put him on his guard.

Rolling over in order to climb off proved harder than originally thought, though.

His muscles, still damaged, refused to respond; his head ached and his face was itchy to an unbearable degree—even if he had really wanted it, his overworked body simply could not comply to carry out his desires. Settling back down on the pillow with a harsh, coughing sigh, Harry ceased his movements and allowed his remaining eye to wander, taking in what seemed to be his new habitat.

It was neither particularly warm nor hospitable, but at least it was nicer than his dull, unchanging cell.

Harry could not see any identifiable objects that would indicate someone had taken the time to make the small room nicer, but it nonetheless emanated a kinder aura than his last home. Overall it was quite plain, coloured a neutral gray from top to bottom and decorated with only a small, untouched bedside table and two metal chairs near the equally gray door. There was a small ventilating shaft above his bed that had been quite effectively fitted with fierce barring that indicated no creature larger than a rat would be able to pass through—and even then it was a tight fit; besides this, though, there was no other indication that this chamber held an Azkaban inmate.

Harry was almost disappointed.

Once his inspection of the room had come back with nothing more informative than the inescapable boredom he would suffer through here with nothing interesting to look at, he returned to himself. Carefully, he approached his unseeing eye with a heavily bandaged right hand—it surprised him when he felt nothing as he prodded around the obviously scarred area. He had not yet seen himself in a mirror, but his imagination and keen sense of touch was enough to fill in the gaps. There was a light cloth bandaging around his head and covering his right eye, but it was not thick enough to hide the obvious damage his face had received.

The black-haired young man shook his head slowly, frowning speculatively when his huge mane of hair failed to fall across his face. Curious, he extended his hand back to the nape of his neck, eyebrows rising in appreciation when he noted that his filthy mop of dirty hair had been successfully pulled back and tamed by magic to remain within the restraints of a rubber band. Muttering a thanks to however had managed this feat, Harry relaxed back into his pillow, wondering why he was not feeling worse than what he probably should be feeling.

_They probably pumped me up with drugs_, he thought distantly. _Or magic, in this case_.

He was wondering the possibilities of overdosing on magical treatment when the door clicked open.

Immediately, Harry eased his only eye closed, slowing his breathing in a flawless imitation of sleep—he'd had enough practice back at Azkaban; mimicking it once again was easy. However, unluckily for him, the intruder had noticed his awakened state and shook his hand.

"That's not necessary, Harry James," Fenwick's familiar voice floated into Harry's muffled ears. "I know you're awake."

Harry peered at Benjy through a hooded eye, still not very used to seeing with only one angle. For a few frustrated seconds he experienced a kind of double-vision as his brain attempted to compensate for his lost eye, trying to simulate what he used to see. After that had cleared, Harry tried to say something but coughed, wincing when he remembered his throat was probably still too fucked up to be of any use.

"Here, I brought some water for you," Benjy continued, revealing a small plastic cup filled to the brim with clear liquid. "Don't move or I'll be forced to restrain you; just drink."

Harry didn't bother arguing. He gratefully drank three gulps of the cool water before choking, gently pushing the cup away with his face. "Thanks," he rasped, blinking his eye blearily. He wanted to wipe away the small trail of saliva that had begun to drip down his face, but didn't want to alarm the auror into attacking him unnecessarily. Fenwick did it for him, however, roughly cleaning his stubble-ridden face with a quick scouring charm.

"How long…?" Harry asked quietly, referring to the time he'd spent unconscious.

Benjy understood. "Several hours or so. It was a hassle dragging you all the way from Azkaban to St Mungos undetected, you know that? Since you can't floo with an unconscious person."

Harry shrugged unapologetically, and then stared at the auror with a frigid, green gaze. "Why…?" he asked again, taking a deep breath in order to avoid being cut off by another series of hacking coughs. "I don't…understand."

"Neither do I, to tell you the absolute truth." Fenwick stared back at him with equal or more coldness. "I just follow orders."

Harry tore his eye away from the man shifting away from him slightly, indicating he had nothing more to say. He didn't know what he was doing here, or how long he would remain in this place, or what they expected him to do. Escape was very, very tempting—he knew how to get out to central London from Saint Mungo's, even if now, so far away from his previous life, that piece of knowledge was useless—but he knew how futile that would be. He ran on logic now, rather than childish impulses; he was too weak and surrounded with one too many hostilities in his way to freedom.

"You'll be getting a visitor soon," Fenwick said, quieter this time, almost as if he didn't want to be overheard. "A very special one."

The young man didn't care very much for this visitor, but he was nonetheless intrigued who could be special enough to merit such a cautious whisper. Why use the word 'special'? Why not 'important'?

Harry was quite tempted to simply shrug and spit out a casual _whatever_, but he knew his current position would not guarantee his safety if he flung around such words so crudely. At the thought, however, Harry wondered if the phrase was still in use among the adolescents. This brought to him the notion to know how old he was right now, and if he was still young enough—still stupid enough—to be using such language.

No one had ever claimed Harry to be sane.

"What's the date?" he murmured, blinking his remaining eye repeatedly as if to clear it from grime, knowing better than to rub them in the presence of a man who could justifiably attack him if it seemed he was doing so in preparation for an attack. No one would care if an auror beat up an Azkaban prisoner for no reason further than paranoia. _Said wizard would probably get a pat on the back for doing so_, Harry thought bitterly.

Fenwick didn't seem to find any danger in replying, and quietly checked his sizable wrist-watch. It was a wizarding one, and Harry was able to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be the phases of the moon and some other unknown symbols all twirling about on it's face before the auror slipped his hand back into the pockets of his trousers.

"Early November fourth." He paused, and then continued with a curt, "1983."

"Hm," Harry acknowledged, feeling vaguely sad he'd missed his parent's second death-anniversary. How long had it been since he'd been dragged back into this hell? "Three years," he murmured aloud, eye clouding as his chest was racked with another income of dangerous coughs. He hacked for what seemed like forever before the ache in his lungs subsided and he was allowed to breath regularly again.

Fenwick didn't appear to be too worried by the display, but nonetheless offered what remained of the plastic cup—which Harry drained gratefully.

"Three years?" he asked conversationally, pulling up a metal chair next to the bed, although it was obvious from his posture that he wasn't very interested in talking.

Deciding to amuse the man—as aggravating him at the moment didn't seem too smart—Harry complied with a nod, wincing at the pain this action caused. "It's been three years and three months since I was taken to Azkaban, that's all." Harry revealed nonchalantly, not really needing to force himself to sound uncaring.

Years of the prison had dulled his emotions down to nothing except raw agony and bitter resentment. His life's unfairness had done nothing to dissuade him of this decline in sensation, and he could no longer manage to muster up enough energy to care about it anymore. In fact, he probably would've been a complete emotionless shell had he not occasionally been able to feel the anticipation and hesitant joy that visiting Snape brought.

The words seemed to snap Fenwick back into reality, almost as if he was once again realizing he was actually speaking to a highly dangerous prisoner rather than a simply haggard looking, possibly cursed individual. He relaxed once more though, nodding as if interested. "What did you do?"

Harry glanced at him from the bed, feeling the mattress's uncomfortable springs digging into his back more than ever. "Don't you know?" he asked quietly. He wasn't very proud of his deed now, but, after so many years of sitting on the topic, it had grown stale. Besides, he'd seen the memory so many times due to the Dementors that he half-expected everyone to know of it already.

"No. Should I?"

Harry managed a shrug, wincing at the pain this caused his strained shoulders a second later. "Two murders," he said, as if he were conversing about the weather.

And who knew, perhaps he was.

"Oh," Fenwick said lightly, but Harry could tell that the topic had made him uncomfortable. For a moment, Harry missed Snape's presence more than ever—it had been so much easier mentally to talk to the man about these kinds of things. They were kin among the dark; here, in this gray room, invisibly shackled to his bed and talking to his guard, Harry was nothing if not alone in his madness.

This revelation was impressively more painful than any wound. An acute sense of loneliness invaded his being, but even that was easily wrestled down to his usual apathy with merely a slight muted sigh of resignation.

"You don't care?" Fenwick asked coolly, but Harry knew his answer was important.

But still, for some damning reason, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"No," Harry said tiredly. _Not any more than I could the day I did it_. Why? He didn't know. It was simply a fact—it was as true as the day he'd revealed it to Snape. It hadn't changed, nor did Harry expect it to. He had lost the ability to feel guilt beyond the automatic moral reaction in his mind, which was even then quickly overcome.

He didn't exactly miss it.

"You're a monster," Fenwick continued calmly, and then stood up from his chair, shifting it back to its place beside the door. "You know that?"

"Yeah," Harry closed his eye, and felt strangely relieved to hear the judgment out loud. "Yeah, I know."

"Your visitor will be coming soon," the man said a moment later. "The moment he comes in you will be shackled to your bed. So don't try to get up."

Harry mustered a snort of acknowledgement. Benjy left the room without another word.

The click of the door seemed to echo forever—Harry merely muffled the sound with his pillow.

º º º

Madam Poppy Pomfrey prided herself in being able to detect anyone who entered her infirmary the moment they stepped in. She trusted this hidden ability of hers so much that when she caught Professor Snape rummaging around her personal storage without her knowledge in the wee hours of the morning, she quite nearly suffered a heart attack. It was well known about Hogwarts and beyond that the sick bay belonged to her, and her only; no one—from the Minister himself to the Headmaster—was allowed entrance without her strict permission.

"Severus Snape!" she screeched, stumbling on her slippers as she approached him menacingly. "_What_ are you doing _in my potion storage_?"

The young teacher seemed to pause only for an instant in surprise, but he did not turn around to look at her and quickly returned to his business without batting an eyelash. "I'm looking for something, obviously," Snape muttered to the cupboard, using the dry, sarcastic tone he reserved to terrify students.

His tactics appeared not to work on Poppy as she fearlessly reached out to clutch the man's shoulder in a gesture of angry dismay in order to continue her tirade, furious at his apparent dismissal. Snape however, surprisingly quick despite his deteriorated state, swiveled around and caught her hand midway, black eyes boring into her own with an unquestionably cold gaze.

"Don't," he whispered, unable to keep the ferociously deadly tone in his voice at bay.

Momentarily started, Madam Pomphrey puffed up in fury, jerking her hand from the Potion Master's tight grasp. "Professor Snape!" she cried out in shock, more than willing to continue her tirade, but then stopped, only then noticing the man's heavy breathing and his slightly hunched posture, his strong hand trembling slightly before her eyes. Poppy knew Snape as well as one can in the health department—Merlin knew she'd treated more deadly injuries on this man than any other living creature—and she knew better than anyone that he had a tight control over his body, and would never allow anyone to perceive even a moment's weakness no matter how battered he became.

"You're hurt," she stated, almost dumbfounded.

Snape glared at her for a moment before turning around and continuing his search, furiously containing his anger. "I'm fine," he said tightly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I will be out of here in a second once I get what I need."

"You're _hurt_," she repeated, reaching out to examine the extent of his injuries.

"_Don't touch me_," Snape snarled, nostrils flaring, flinching away from her touch. "Stop nagging me, woman, _I am fine_."

"Severus," Pomfrey continued quietly, a bit miffed at the insult but willing to overlook it in favour of a patient's health, "You know I never question how and why and where you get so battered up when you do, therefore I will not pry to inquire now. But at least let me treat you, as you are obviously in pain."

Snape scowled at her, but did not give in. "I just need a potion and I'll be out of your lair, you old witch," he growled.

"Why don't you brew it on your own then?" Pomfrey huffed, hands on her hips, "Oh all-powerful Potions Master?"

The young man's eye twitched at the title, obviously disliking it greatly, but bit back a sharp retort in favour of sparing the old sap a pair of bleeding ears. "I don't have the time to brew it," he grated out with his teeth clenched, the statement obviously paining his pride greatly. "And I'm sure you must have more than one in supply, so it won't be of a great loss."

Giving in, the old nurse sighed, lifting a hand to her temple in frustration. "Alright, alright. What potion do you need? I'll fetch it for you, if it'll make you feel better."

Snape hesitated then, as if desiring to keep it a secret. With a soft, inaudible sigh he made up his mind and stared at her with half-closed eyes, revealing a fraction of the pain he was in. "Restorative Elixir made with Re'em blood," he stated quietly. "If you have any."

She stared at him, aghast, and then blinked back into reality. "But that's…"

"Exactly," he growled, "why I didn't want to tell you." He turned once more in an effort to continue his search and ignored the horrified witch, pausing only to remark, "And a positive A-type Blood-Replenishing Potion would be useful, too. I ran out of my last recent batch early this morning."

"Oh Merlin," she whispered, still shell-shocked at the previous news. This time he did not stop her from reaching over and gently touching his back, resigning to his fate. She immediately noticed how he recoiled painfully at the contact and she became aware of fact that the entirety of the back of his robe was coated with blood—this was only hidden because of the material's dark colour—otherwise, it would be a soaked red. "Severus," she whispered as the tips of her fingers returned a thick, wet copper. "What happened to you?"

"None of your business," Snape glared at her, stepping out of reach, "So? Do you have it?"

"Heaven's no, young man; Re'em blood is impossible to come by these days, you know better than me about that." She transformed into her medical self in the blink of an eye, beginning to gently push Snape towards an empty bed. "The best I have is a regular Restorative Potion—but with the amounts of blood you've probably lost already, I'm afraid I will have to force you to remain in this infirmary until I can get you to stop bleeding. How long have you been like this?"

"Not long enough for it to be serious—stop pushing me woman!" Severus snapped, "I am doing just fine on my own and—_just what are you doing_?!"

With little regards to her patient's privacy, as she'd seen most of his body on other occasions anyway, she lifted up the back of his robes—heavy with the weight of blood—immediately revising the multitude of small deep holes that were continually oozing blood down his back, staining his black pants (as well as what little showed of his gray boxers) and leaking down his legs, sluggishly pooling at his feet, leaving a bloody trail behind him. The cuts showed no signs of clotting, and she knew the man was definitely not hemophilic.

This was serious. Cuts like these did not come about without a reason.

"Severus," Pomfrey stated blandly, searching his face with more than a little suspicion, "You can't stop bleeding because you have a very potent Dark curse on your body. I won't ask, you know me, but just tell me the nature of the curse and I'll do my best to still it and mend the cuts. Take off your robe—I need to check your entire body."

"I can take the curse off myself, Poppy," Snape growled, jerking away from her and pushing down his robe with a brick red blush on his infuriated face. "I just need a restorative potion strong enough to level my magic reserves as soon as possible, and it'll be done with."

"Magic?" Poppy eyed him. "Merlin, not that as well? No wonder you're in such an awful state! I must inform the Headmaster immediately, it could be permanently damaging and he's better at healing such a state than I—"

"You will _not_," Snape hissed, grabbing Poppy's robes tightly, unaware that his blood-soaked hands were staining her clothes, staring at her dangerously and spitting like an angry snake, "under _any_ circumstances," he was close enough that the wide-eyed witch could smell his putrid, early-morning breath, "tell the Headmaster about my condition, do you _understand_?"

"Do not threaten me, young man," Pomfrey slapped his hand away, regretting it when she noticed how Severus winced minutely at the action. Gathering up her courage, she puffed up to full size, formidable despite her being a head shorter than the man. "Your reserves are quite possibly as low as they can go, and I know you would never dare rummage around my privacy unless it was extremely urgent. I intend to heal you, Severus Snape, and with or without your cooperation I will do as such. Now, lay face down on this bed or I will be forced to spell you down."

Snape seemed to bristle dangerously, his eyes narrowing to an impossible degree, his lips curled into a ferocious snarl; all of his body language screamed danger, looming over her like the bat he was. But she would not be scared, and she glared back at him with all that was in her—magickless and in such a deteriorated state, Snape had no chance. He knew when to back down.

Lowering his hunches he continued to glare at her but quietly sat down on the bed, giving in with a final sullen frown. "Do not tell Albus, at any cost," he said firmly. "No matter if I am about to die a squib. I do not want him to know of any of this, comprehend?"

Pomfrey seemed to think this for a second before sighing tightly, "Fine," She accepted, raising a finger. "_But_, if you become dire, I will have no choice. Ah! Stop, don't say anything! Don't! I don't care what you think; I doubt any of us will be able to tolerate a moody, depressive, _magickless_ Snape any more than we can now." She smiled softly at him. "Don't worry, Severus, I will do my best. You'll be fine."

"I don't doubt you, Poppy," Severus grumbled, glancing over at the sheets that were quickly becoming stained with red, wincing internally. "…sorry about the mess. I know it takes longer to spell out blood from cloth."

"I'm pretty much used to it," she smiled fondly, touched that he cared, even if only a little bit. "Lay down—I'm going to seal the bed with sound-proof curtains. It's far too early for any of the children to be up anyway, so don't worry about being seen. How many hours were you able to sleep with this damage?"

Madam Pomfrey and Severus Snape shared a strange relationship.

They did not get along very well, but perhaps because of this, they understood each other quite effectively. Poppy had seen the young Snape grow from a spidery young brat to the sour teacher he was now, and she had seen him come and go through her chambers in a year more than most of the other children would ever in their lifetime. Through this and a few other scattered situations where she had brought him back to health on the verge of death itself on more than one occasion, they had grown distantly used to one another.

Almost fond of each other, in their own strange, unusual sort of way.

Not at all sexually—she remained far too old for him and they were not in the least compatible, nor did Snape desire a companion anytime soon—but more like a tentative friendship. They squabbled whenever they were forced together but they were both willing to aid the other without another thought if such a time arose. She understood the way he was and accepted him as much as she was able to; he related to her stern, no-nonsense attitude more than any other adult and allowed himself to be vulnerable in her presence when necessary, trusting her to care for him when no one else would.

Almost like Harry and he had been, back there in Hell. But never as powerful—she was nothing like him, deep down inside. Not like Harry had been.

"A little less than my usual amount," Snape allowed quietly. "Two hours, perhaps. At best, three. I wasn't watching the clock." He did not mention that every thirty minutes he'd had to wake up and drink another blood restorative potion or else he would've bled to death, thus reducing the time he'd spent in sleep even less.

Madam Pomfrey sighed as she bustled around her still-open cupboards, deftly plucking out a jar filled with yellow-paste and a red-coloured potion inside a blue bottle, making it seem as if it were a strange, putrid purple. "I don't know how you run on that," she said as she placed the two bottles on the bedside table. "But then again I don't know how you run at all, with all those scars on your being."

He snorted, sneering, "Don't make me into a martyr now, Poppy."

"Oh, I'd never dream of it, Severus," she paused her ministrations with a chuckle. "Imagine! Saint Severus, martyr to us all. It does have a nice ring to it, though."

"Don't you even think it," the man growled. "And get on with your stupid treatment. I have to teach in several hours, and I can't go as I am now."

"And I have to see little snotty brats all day too, you know." She sniffed, before becoming serious, vanishing the man's robes and tattered slacks. Out of courtesy she magically fitted him with a new pair of black pants instead of leaving him solely in his graying, bloody underwear, knowing how great Severus's personal privacy was to him. It was here that she winced at the extent of his injuries, noting that they extended all throughout his back and more. There was a particularly nasty gash running from one shoulder blade up to his neck and ending just at his collarbone, ensuring yet another scar to join the rest that littered the man's body. Pomfrey hurried to apply to salve while handing him the purplish red potion at the same time, being careful not to jostle the poor man more than what was necessary.

"Well, wherever you got this, it looks as if you've gone through one of those muggle…" Poppy paused in thought, struggling to recall the saying as she worked. "What are they called again?"

"Meat grinders?" Snape provided dryly, gritting his teeth when the balm burned and then cooled on his back, healing the numerous little bruises scattered about his self and scarring over the slashes he'd suffered through. "Stop poking me, woman!"

"Stop wriggling, you child," she huffed. "And drink that potion!"

_Yes, mother_, Snape heard Harry's voice echo in his head, and he almost started back with shock, only just stopping himself from toppling over. Rubbing his temples, he allowed himself to relax. _I must be hallucinating again_, he thought blankly. He gulped the given draught swiftly, grimacing at the Blood-Replenishing potion's rather…disgusting taste. _Stupid idiotic ghost won't leave me alone_.

This time, however, Harry's spirit did not appear. _I must of imagined it_, he convinced himself once more, resting his head on the rather uncomfortably pillow, shoving the empty bottle back onto the bedside table with one hand. _I wonder what the dunderhead is doing now, though. I haven't seen him in…_an abrupt pause in thought.

_Nor do I want to_, he closed his eyes firmly. _I don't want to_.

"That's it," Poppy encouraged from far away. "Relax a bit. It'll be over in a jiffy. I'll get you a more effective Restorative Potion as soon as I can."

_Will you come back_?

—_As soon as I can_.

Severus let out an empty, mental laugh. _No, of course I don't miss him_.

He wondered if repeating the same sentence over and over would make the fact true. He was detachedly still contemplating this as he drifted off, the ever-present pain receding temporarily to the back of his head. And in his mind, he felt himself float, as if he were flying; up and away from all his hurt and anguish, pulled somewhere off into the distance, almost as if he were being called.

_I don't miss him at all._

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please drop by a review if you have the time, I truly appreciate it!_  
_


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: **I am still not completely pleased with this chapter - but I figured I've made you guys wait long enough. Everyone, please thank** Cessations **for her brilliant, outstandingly thorough beta-ing. Seriously now, my writings would be completely incoherent without her extraordinary help!! The next chapter has also been written, but I feel it's a bit too...meh. I'll keep working on it.

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**Chapter 22 - **_Unexpected Visitors_

Few people knew just how much of a manipulating coot Albus Dumbledore was.

Even less knew of the existence of a small closet filled with samples of many people, used as polyjuice ingredients when he needed it. Also within that little room sat many bottles of pre-made and conserved polyjuice, just waiting to be combined with the necessary hair or whatnot to be of use. He had briefly entertained thoughts of destroying it once and for all after the war's end and Voldemort's demise, but this idea had quickly run off undone. His little closet was too valuable to destroy, and the enchantments woven into the room were so deep now that the backlash of its obliteration was sure to be picked up by some of his staff's brighter members.

Besides, it still had its uses—this being a perfect example.

Carefully, Dumbledore uncorked one of his precious few polyjuice potions, easily grasping another bottle with a spidery label claiming to be 'Severus Snape', overturning it onto the mixture and waited a moment for the fizzing to subside. Conflicting thoughts about the intelligence of his disguise had been easily swatted to the back of his head, knowing he was powerful enough to be able to correct any errors if his plan went wrong.

Albus refused to acknowledge the dark little voice that told him that he was choosing this disguise as some misguided sense of revenge against the cold shoulder he was receiving from his potions master. He wasn't nearly so childish as to hold a grudge over something so simple.

His annoying phoenix begged otherwise.

"Oh hush up, Fawkes," Albus smiled cheerily at the fiery bird as it cawed indignantly from its perch. "I won't be long and besides, Severus wouldn't go to Saint Mungo's even if his life depended on it."

The flaming chicken, as his dear Potions Master put it, squawked unpleasantly, flapping his mighty wings angrily. He was quite near his flaming day, so Fawkes was more miserable than usual. Molting, he made quite an image and an even greater annoyance—Albus had modestly compared it to an Augurey the day before and it was still rather miffed about it. (**A/N: An Augurey is a vulture-like creature—also known as the Irish Phoenix—who's cries were once speculated to bring death to those who heard them; now it is known they merely predict rain.**)

"Yes, yes, I understand your concern, but it'll be all right," Albus nodded dismissingly. "I'm only going to confirm a doubt. Simple curiosity, that is all."

Fawkes gave a final shrill twitter of anger before spontaneously bursting into sudden flames, burning into ashes and falling silent.

"Fawkes," the old man sighed softly, wandering over and wiping away at the ashes carefully, revealing a very disgruntled and ugly, featherless chick. "Please trust me."

The reborn bird chirped pathetically before giving the equivalent of an avian shrug, almost as if saying 'Do what you want'. It curled up in it's own ashes and dozed off with one last final coo of warning, leaving Albus to chuckle and absentmindedly remark a casual "Bottoms up," as he drank the murky blue potion with a barely perceptible swallow. Dumbledore frowned in distaste, carefully setting aside the bottle, pausing as he began to feel the immediate changes in his body. He forced himself to relax as he changed, knowing that the unnatural process was making him quite edgy and, as if in response to his feelings, his powerful magic swirled around his body, almost automatically negating the effects as his instinct commanded him to.

Only through sheer power of will did the Headmaster force himself to stop his instinct.

Eventually the awkward feeling passed and Albus grinned in triumph when he conjured a mirror wandlessly, twisting his face into a very familiar scowl in an attempt to mimic his potions professor. It took a few tries, but he got the gist of it soon enough. It wouldn't do to ruin his disguise by grinning cheerfully, after all. He practiced his snarls and scowls in the conjured mirror, smirking when he realized the exercise was unnecessary since he'd already learned all of Severus's expressions by merely watching him over the years. He was fond enough of his Potions Master in a fatherly manner that he'd long since memorized his usual actions. Not that they were very hard to remember, as it was a distinctive trait to his personality.

As a last ditch effort to appear as alike to Snape as possible, he stalked over to the closet and closed it, swooping and setting his face into its usual alarming scowl. Abruptly, he paused in his acting and turned to the reborn phoenix, cocking his head to one side.

"So?" He grumbled expectantly, raising one eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Severus. "How am I doing so far?"

The phoenix opened one eye and chirped a sigh of approval, before closing them again. Had anyone been in the room, said person would've been highly disturbed at seeing the incredible beam stretch across Snape's usual dark face. "Thanks!" The poly-juiced Albus exclaimed gratefully, smiling like a loon. Before he left, however, he quickly jotted an informal letter to Minerva in case she came knocking, explaining briefly that he was off on important business and wouldn't be back for a while.

Without further ado, he swiveled and swooped out of the room, headed towards the apparition point that would allow him to depart to St. Mungo's unnoticed.

ººº

Harry awoke to the awful yet uncannily familiar feeling of being restrained, and when he opened his eye the first thing he saw was a face hovering just above his own, staring at him with something akin to an intense dislike. Jerking back into his pillow with a grunt of surprise, Harry snapped his jaw shut when he finally recognized his captor.

"…Fenwick?"

"Wake up, sleeping beauty," the auror said quite coldly, apparently still touchy from their last conversation. "You're conscious state is required. And don't even think of struggling against the magical bonds—they'll get tighter."

Harry's eye narrowed slightly, but he winced at the pain of scrunching his face and decided not to protest. Experimentally he tugged at the invisible binds and they indeed tightened a bit, causing him to cease his movement immediately. While the restraints were unpleasant, suffocating to death because these damn things had a mind of their own didn't exactly strike his fancy either. With an inner sigh, he forced himself to relax, allowing himself to glare a hole into the ceiling as his mind processed the information he'd been reminded of.

Who would want to visit him? And for what purpose?

There were many questions, but no answer. Harry wasn't worried that someone might've guessed he was from the future—having spent three years in Azkaban, his magical signature was sure to have shifted enough to accommodate to this time and besides, no one had come for him for that reason before…and anyway, his tale was quite impossible. Time traveling beyond a few hours was unknown to the Wizarding World, as far as he knew.

His foremost visiting candidate was Albus Dumbledore.

And although Harry found it odd that he could've possibly caught the Headmaster's notice so far into the game, he was the most probable since Fenwick had mentioned him in passing back in Azkaban, when the man had asked if he knew of the great wizard's existence. The question remained, however: What could Dumbledore want with him?

There was no more time to ponder said train of thought, as the door to the room soundlessly opened, allowing a nervous-looking Mediwitch to scuttle in to check Harry's vitals with a quick spell. Harry was mildly annoyed she didn't even ask him his state, but immediately suppressed the notion, berating himself for expecting charity. The bonds around him were enough of a warning that indicated he would be treated no kinder than in Azkaban.

_Nervous…? _Harry mused to himself._ Why? If it's Dumbledore…_

It was then that his heart almost stopped.

_Severus_, Harry though in shock as the man swooped into the room with a distasteful glance, pausing on his scarred face for a second without a trace of recognition before nodding jerkily at the seated auror. Behind him, the mediwitch left the room with a troubled glance.

"You may leave," Snape said in his typical insulting drawl, sneering unappreciatively when Fenwick bristled indignantly and rose to protest. "The Headmaster sent me, you nitwit. I have his permission to speak with the prisoner alone."

Fenwick's jaw unhinged and his eye twitched for a second before a huge scowl replaced his surprise, looking strangely out of place on his face. He rose to his feet stiffly and left the room, glaring at Snape as he slammed the door behind him.

"Stiff bastard, isn't he?" Harry allowed himself a small smile at the sight of his friend.

Nonetheless, he was wary. For some reason, Snape didn't sound the same despite the similar motions, didn't…_feel_ the same. _It must be simply because he's still blocking me…not that I'm surprised._ He internally winced again. He hadn't exactly been very courteous when plunging into the poor man's head in a desperate attempt to communicate.

And…after seeing him work out his strange ritual with that horrible corpse…

But Snape was Snape, right? And he'd stuck with him for six months in Azkaban—helped him, even. He wouldn't betray Snape because the man was simply ignoring him for his stupid actions. Rather, he would try to reach that level of camaraderie they'd shared before again, slowly, without rushing it.

Not replying, Snape shrugged, staring at him in silence. Harry felt a strange tickling just above his bandaged blind eye, but due to being restrained from the neck down, he was unable to scratch it. The silence stretched and Harry felt extremely awkward, not knowing why Snape was being so quiet.

"Hey, um…" Harry began, his small smile struggling to remain in place but slowly falling off. "Why are you here?"

"How did you do it?" Snape spoke softly, black eyes boring insistently at his skull, as if he could divulge all his secrets with a glance. Knowing the man, he probably could.

"I'm not quite sure," Harry told him earnestly, knowing that honesty was better in this situation than weaving lies he did not know how to control. "I swear, I did not mean to make you feel as if you were…well, crazy. You're not, all right? And um…I'm sorry about, er, forcing you to talk to me. In the hall. The Castle—she let me talk to you when I did—she wasn't very happy with me for some reason. I dunno…I didn't know it would hurt you…the last time I saw you—well, the last time we talked—I'm sorry you felt so miserable."

Harry took a deep breath and continued, "I told you that I'd come as soon as I could, and I did—" a bout of coughing suddenly wracked his body, and he felt exhausted and miserable, his throat dry and parched. What had they done to deserve this? _What had anyone done to deserve this_? "—and I swear I didn't mean to pry when I found you…I don't know what you were doing but…I mean…that magic that you did, with your…with your, er…" he finally trailed off when no response was evident, confused at the total lack of reaction.

There was a still silence, and the scarred young man felt as if a lead weight had dropped down into his stomach, twisting his insides.

"Are you angry at me," Harry questioned quietly, suddenly tired all of a sudden. "Snape?"

The other man said nothing, remaining standing, but his eyes were carefully unmoving, as if attempting to veil his confusion. As if he had simply a vague idea of what Harry was talking about but was striving to appear all-knowledgeable. That was a look better suited to Albus Dumbledore, Harry thought speculatively, not Snape.

_Wait_.

"Your father…" he slowly continued, staring at Snape's unmoving form with what he hoped was open naivety. "How long has he been dead, Severus?"

"Six years," Snape raised an eyebrow. "And I am here to question you, not the other way around. How did you do it?"

It was then that Harry knew this was not Snape. The man would've never allowed him to call him Severus, no matter what. Sighing, he closed his eye, breaking their eye contact. He allowed a larger smile to creep onto his face, ignoring the pain this caused.

"You probably know better than I do why it worked, Snape. Or should I say, _Dumbledore_?"

There was silence, but no denials. Harry had the empty urge to laugh and wonder when the world had gone mad. What had possessed the Headmaster to attempt to impersonate his Potions Master? Rather than grant the old man a disguise he could use out in the open to his heart's desire, it would probably only arouse suspicion to his person. After all, Snape would never step foot in Saint Mungo's—Albus Dumbledore coming in to visit someone would be much more likely, wouldn't it?

Back at Hogwarts, when he'd run a hand through Snape's chest and accidentally connected them permanently, the sallow man had muttered something about Albus being right on the fact that he was crazy. Harry was no fool now—he loved the Headmaster dearly, but even he knew that installing such a thought onto another was beyond cruel. After all, Snape might be slightly demented but that was how he was; causing him further agony by spitting it onto his face seemed to be just a way to make the man even more miserable.

And Harry would never forgive Dumbledore if he had done this on purpose. He opened an impressively bright green eye and narrowed it to a slit, face curling into a hostile snarl.

"Where is Snape? What have you done to him?"

The imposter wearing Snape's face relaxed minutely, his usual mask of snarkiness fading into a calm, blank stare. "He is fine, back at Hogwarts. I have done nothing to him."

"Why are you here?" Harry continued savagely, unknowing that his face was now almost inhuman in his anger, his pale, sunken face seemingly that of a demon. "And why did you take me out of Azkaban?"

"You aren't from around here, are you?" Dumbledore-as-Snape spoke quietly, undaunted by Harry's display. "Not from this time."

Harry eye widened and his jaw clicked shut, teeth grinding loudly in his mouth. A million and one thoughts were racing through his head, achieving nothing more than a bitter headache and an annoyingly fast heartbeat. As if sensing his turmoil, the invisible restraints painfully tightened on his body, and Harry could almost swear he could hear his weak bones creak and crackle under the strain.

"I thought so," Albus continued thoughtfully, no less quiet than before. "But the question is, how? How were you able to do that?"

"I don't know," Harry exhaled, the restraints too tight on his chest, allowing him only shallow breaths. "I don't know…how the hell I got here. I just…" He stopped then, eye narrowing as he realized what was happening. "_Don't you dare_."

Dumbledore seemed surprised for a second before a small, disturbingly out-of-place smile crept onto his disguise's face. The ache that had spread from the irritating spot above his blind eye and evolved into a full-blown migraine began to recede, slowly, almost unwillingly so.

"Clever," he allowed quietly, his poly-juiced eyes hard but not cold. "That you have such a shield blocking your thoughts. Or perhaps…?"

_Shield_? Harry thought blankly. He'd never quite mastered Occlumency, let alone any other method to block out mental intrusions. The best he could do was sense when someone was attempting to dive into his head—and even then he wasn't very perceptive. Only by recognizing Dumbledore's posture and his eye contact had he realized what was happening. He hadn't exactly expected to be protected against it or anything of the like—

"Severus has a similar one. An uncannily identical one, actually," Dumbledore continued softly, the tone in his voice betraying nothing. "And it makes me wonder if there's more to you two than I originally thought."

"What?" Harry asked weakly, not understanding. He was suddenly utterly confused, lost, unable to grasp at the logic of this meeting or what was happening now. He half expected that Fenwick fellow to burst into the room and yell a cheerful surprise, or that he would awaken to find himself back in Azkaban with nothing but the cold and his madness.

Snape's face smiled warmly at him then, but it eerie and not comforting at all. "Ah, do not worry. I understand now, at least, as much as I am required to know." He stepped forward, to his bedside, and Harry instinctively shrunk back onto the pillow, wary but unable to move. Dumbledore stretched a calloused hand and rested it over Harry's bandaged eye gently, nonetheless causing a white-hot pain to race from Harry's skull to the tips of his toes. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a hollow croak of agony.

"Hm," Dumbledore hummed under his breath. "I see now. But the only one who can remove this is the caster, yes?"

"What are you…?" Harry hissed, wanting to rip the hands away but completely unable to.

"You won't be able to see from this eye anymore, but that was already a given. Do you understand? It was the sacrifice for union, the reason why you were forfeit—and, in essence, your salvation."

Harry gave out a half-choked growl, the bands around his chest having tightened to such a degree that he could barely breath, let alone reply. His pale, sunken face was slightly flushed from the blood that was rushing throughout his body, his heart beating a mile per minute.

"Good, good," Snape's voice said in Dumbledore's tone, sounding so completely out of place that Harry was tempted to laugh all the way into insanity. "Now, I'm going to have to make you forget this, but the shield in your mind won't allow it completely." He smiled almost nostalgically. "Severus was always the only one who could challenge me at my mind tricks, after all. So I'm going to change your memory. It will all come back when the time is right, I'm sure."

_What_? Harry thought, panicked, his only eye staring fearfully into Dumbledore's black, endless ones. _What's happening? Why? What the fucking hell is happening_?

"Please do not take it personally. I am sure you and I will come to an apt conclusion in due time, perhaps someday in the near future. But for now, _rest_."

Harry inadvertently found himself quite drowsy, his fury and anger and confusion seeping away with the quiet words Dumbledore had whispered. He tried to keep a hold of his consciousness, but it slipped away from him and he felt no more.

ººº

Years of spying and forcing himself to awaken completely ready for any incoming attack had conditioned Snape to the remarkable ability of being able to simply shift from a state of deep sleep into one of a sharp awareness in an instant. It was as such that his dark eyes snapped open a few hours after having fallen into a healing trance due to Poppy's helpful aid, all traces of drowsiness escaping his body as he became immediately aware of the uncanny silence that surrounded his enclosed area.

It took all of two seconds for him to recall that Poppy had placed a powerful Silencing charm on his curtains that effectively blocked out all noises from his place of rest, and another for him to recall just why he was in the Hospital Wing instead of back down in his quarters in the first place. It was then that he remembered how he'd stupidly allowed himself to be caught unawares by the mediwitch and be treated by her, which undoubtedly would cause the Headmaster to raise a curious eyebrow if he ever found out about it.

Still, despite his idiotic blunder, Snape allowed himself some reprieve.

Obviously, he wouldn't have lasted the night had it not been for the woman's immediate actions. Having lost massive amounts of blood and still suffering from his wounds and lack of magic, Snape was not arrogant enough to assume that will power alone would've pulled him through. He frowned slightly when he realized that he owed Poppy for saving his life yet again, but quickly dismissed the life debt from his mind as more important issues took reign.

A quick check confirmed that his Horcrux was still safely nestled in his punctured ear, apparently unnoticed by the mediwitch's poking and prodding. Next, Snape located his wand and yet another blood replenishing potion on the bedside bureau, the latter of which he consumed with a distinct sneer of disgust at the taste. He seriously needed to find a way to make the damned brew taste better…

A glance below the crisp white sheets that hid his thin body made him grit his teeth in frustration and horrified embarrassment when he realized Poppy had quite effectively stripped him down to his boxers without a spare thought to his privacy. The previously transfigured black trousers had long since disintegrated back into the magic where they'd originally emerged from, leaving the Potions Master feeling more than slightly underdressed. Not to mention he felt ridiculous due to the numerous amounts of bandages wrapped around his torso all the way up to a few loops about his aching neck, in the guise of some half-assed mummy.

Without his robes and being shirtless spare the tight gauze that covered his chest, Severus was effectively unable to escape the Hospital Wing to his quarters without being spotted and gawked at like some sort of strange phenomenon. Snape snorted angrily—he had no intention on parading around and being submitted to such humiliation. Poppy was smart enough to realize this, and cunning enough to take advantage of it. It was clear that she desired to speak to him before he made a beeline to the safety of his rooms, as he would've done so had he been capable. It was a remarkably Slytherin motion, even for her, and Snape wondered—not for the first time—if the mediwitch had been in his house during her student years.

A quick mental check revealed that Poppy's impressively thorough treatment had allowed his depleted magical levels to begin to restore themselves. Even then, however, he did not have nearly enough to spare towards his decency without forcing himself into another coma. He was nowhere near his usual strength, and it would take days of careful monitoring what he did in order for his magic to reach its peak. The Dark curse that was eating away at his body via the scrapes on his back was his foremost concern right now, as only the caster of said curse or an incredibly competent Dark Arts wizard could break the dangerous hex (of which he was both). His dignity would have to take step down, as the curse's immediate removal had taken the slot for his most pressing priority at the moment.

Bitterly, Snape realized that the destruction of his Horcrux would also have to be put on hiatus, as breaking the curse inflicted upon him would undoubtedly take up all of the small traces of magic he'd managed to recover during his brief respite. He had half a mind to call for Poppy in order for her to aid him once he certainly collapsed after the daunting task of removing the deadly hex he'd applied so many years ago to his mother's urn in case anybody came to claim it, but once again his pride ruled over his common sense, not quite for the last time. Besides, he reasoned with himself sourly, the Dark counter-curse he was being forced to use would expel enough negative energy to make the damned witch come running no matter if he called her or not.

With one last sigh, Snape drew himself up in his bed and leaned tiredly against his pillows. Even with everything Poppy had done, the bleeding had obviously not ceased or abated at all during his sleep. He could still feel the liquid ooze through the gauze and knew it was staining the bed a scarlet hue. Indeed, the originally white sheets were now drenched in crusting red, obviously soaking up an hour's worth of constant bleeding. His scrapes would re-open again and again no matter how many times they were healed, and grow progressively larger until the Dark curse was removed from his being.

This was the nature of the hostile magic, and Snape knew it better than anyone. If he let it run its course, he would certainly be dead before the day was over.

Removing the hex was simple enough, he supposed, except it would commandeer all of his attention and require darker thoughts than what usual counter-hexes required to work. Also, it would sap away at his reserves until the curse was completely removed, and if he ran dry before he finished doing so, then it was safe to say that Snape could kiss his damned life away. It was sort of ironic that his very own curse—one of his own making, at that!—had been turned against him as it had. He'd been quite sure as a youth that no one would be able to take his Horcrux without eventually perishing in the process, overlooking his own safety in case he ever decided to come back for it.

But that was just it—as a brat serving adoringly under the Dark Lord, Severus had never spared a thought towards desiring to destroy it. He'd never intended to go back to his home at all, quite content to leave his father's corpse to forever rot in his disgraceful state as the guard to his mother and his soul. Of course, he'd never imagined—if the case be that he ever desired to go back, for whatever reason—that his magic would reject him and deem him hostile. After all, it _was_ his magic. Why had it attacked him?

There were many theories, but Snape found it prudent that he stop wondering about the past and instead focus on expelling the Curse from his body as quickly as possible. Speculation would have to wait until later.

Severus glared at the inconspicuously innocent wand on the bedside table, knowing it would be worthless in this situation. Perhaps, if he'd still had his own, he might've been able to use the focusing core to his advantage. However, this was not the case. His original wand was destroyed, and this stick was a very poor replacement. In fact, it would probably only hinder his attempts instead of facilitate them. As such, he left the object untouched and focused his concentration inside.

Allowing the part of his mind that was always aware of what was happening outside of his body to momentarily relax, Snape directed every shred of willpower and magic inside of him to the Curse that was slowly and quite effectively leeching away at his life. As it was originally of his own making, he was quite aware of how to undo it. He also knew how taxing his subsequent actions would be. Shutting down on the outside completely, Severus began to mentally chant and spared no thoughts as to whether he would be able to accomplish this daunting task or not.

There was no time to doubt, not any more.

Quickly, Snape tapped into all the negative feelings he kept stored. They easily rolled through his person in waves, hate and anger and bitterness wrapping around him like an old, familiar cloak. To him, Dark magic came as easily as breathing. He might be an expert Potions Master, but it was when performing the Dark Arts that his true potential came out. With nary a further thought, Severus delved into his subconscious and systematically began to break the murderous magic clinging to his core, ignoring the agony this caused him.

He was no stranger to pain. In fact, he welcomed the familiar sensation.

Still, the curse was strong. Apparently, having leeched at him for several hours now had possibly made it even more resistant to any advances at obliterating it. For every string he slashed apart, several more came at him, tearing through his core and his soul, sucking away at his life and his magic like nobody's business. A slow and building panic began to descend through Severus's usually calm mind, distracting him from his efforts.

A tiny shred of bitter pride crossed his mind as he realized just how powerful his Dark curse was. He'd created it too well, apparently. It was obvious he would not be able to defeat it without his full magical strength. With only an hour of slow recovery, he was easy prey to the curse—indeed, he would not be able to last more than another minute at this rate.

Within him, a slow welling bitterness soaked through him. So this was it? He was going to die by his own curse. How very appropriate.

Distantly, he became aware that his physical body was convulsing, Dark magic oozing in and out of him as he fought the curse with the same darkness. He vaguely wondered what Dumbledore would think when informed of his demise. He would not be surprised if not even he mourned his passing.

_Would Harry care_?

For some reason, he attached himself to this stupid train of thought and wondered how long it would take for him to know of his passing. A strange, irrational desire to see Harry overcame him—how 'soon' was now? Harry had said he'd come as soon as he could. Where was he now? Was he still rotting away in Solitary, like Snape was now rotting away in his own personal hell on earth?

The curse was powerful—more powerful than ever. He knew he would not survive. What little that remained of his magic was being sapped away too fast for him to pull it back, and even if he managed it, he'd lost too much of everything to survive this assault. Distantly, he felt his Horcrux earring begin to burn, sizzling—was it sustaining his life even now? The very thing he sought to destroy was now saving him. How fucking ironic.

No, it wasn't saving him—it was merely delaying the inevitable. Would he die? Yes.

A strange sense of peace enveloped him. He would die.

Snape closed his eyes, and relaxed. Hadn't he been telling himself he was ready to die for years now? There was nothing holding him back anymore. Perhaps he would be lucky and his Horcrux would be destroyed alongside his rapidly depleting magical core. He vaguely wondered if his corpse would even merit a grave, or if it would be left to rot out in some forgotten chamber like he'd done with his father.

Death was around the corner. An image of Poppy's horrified face came to his mind, a vision of Albus' worried gaze penetrating him. And then, he saw Harry—the one man who'd he'd shared six months of hell together, who'd come to him even when all he'd done was reject his presence—he saw Harry with his glazed, innocent eyes and that stupid, idiotic smile of his. A bitter, final thought came to him.

_How soon was now_?

Not soon enough, it seemed.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Reviews would be lovely. 


	23. Chapter 23

** Author's Note:** Hello guys! It's been a while...I've been avoiding this story because I've taken a dislike to it. I'm just not satisfied with how I'm going about with it. It feels like I'm writing some cheesy drama or something likewise disgusting. Guh...oh well. I hope you enjoy this chapter anyway.

For those who are wondering, **this story CAN be viewed as SLASH**, but it will NOT contain any sex scenes or anything deserving an NC-17 rating because that's not the point of the story. Besides, for now, these two are just friends. Officially, this fic has deviated from cannon and I'm no longer interested in keeping up the storyline anyway, so the fic won't necessarily follow the books 100.

Anyway, feel free to comment on the suckiness of this chapter. Believe me, I know it's terribly disappointing - I wrote it.

* * *

** Chapter 23 - **_Final Bonding_

"Harry?" Severus asked, baffled. "What?"

"Snape?" Harry blinked his one eye. "What are you doing here?"

For what seemed like an eternity, they both stared at each other, the impossibility of what was happening rendering them speechless. In this realm of darkness, they were the only two visible beings, floating in an awkward limbo of weightless space. The Potions Master swiftly snapped back to himself, eyes narrowing.

"What's happening? Where are we?" He growled, noting with detached amazement that he could not feel the floor but still somehow perceived that he was not falling, and was standing on an endless mass of nothingness.

"I don't know," Harry replied automatically, still dazed in confusion. "I've never been in here for longer than a few seconds."

"Where is here?" Snape snapped, impatient, waving towards the blackness with a sharp gesture. "And why are _you_ here?"

The young man sighed, running a hand through his matted hair in confusion. "As far as I know, this is unconsciousness." He looked up at Snape with a small smile. "Though it's the first time I've dreamt of you in here with me. This is the space I usually go into before I find you and wake up."

"Wake up?" Severus snarled. "What in nine hells are you talking about?"

"When I come to you, it is here were I find you." Harry shrugged. "I guess you can say it's in here where I locate you and am then transported to where you are after I leave my body."

Snape fell back, utterly and totally and completely confused. A started bark of laughter escaped his lips, delirious chuckles leaving his throat as he collapsed to a crouch in the darkness. "Am I dying?" he croaked in the midst of suppressed giggles, clutching at his head in an unconscious effort to contain his madness. "Or have I finally gone insane?"

Harry watched his friend dissolve into horrified guffaws and fought to strike back his helplessness, not knowing what to do. "No!" he denied savagely. "No, of course you're not crazy, you idiot!" He reached forward and grasped Snape's wrists, which had found their way to the man's skull. "And what's this talk of dying?"

"The Curse," Snape whispered, choked laughter still erupting from his unresisting lips. "I couldn't hold it back—I assume I'm dying. There's nothing I can do now; why am I not dead?"

"Curse?" Harry muttered, unconsciously raising a trembling hand to his bandaged, dead eye. "The one you released when you were with your father?"

The man's head snapped up, eyes hollow and clear and crazed. "What?" He grasped Harry's shirt, pulling him down as his lips transformed into a terrible snarl. "How the _hell_ do you know that?!"

"I was with you," Harry whispered, startled at the viciousness of Snape's reaction. "Your Curse took my eye; I'm in Saint Mungo's right now because of it."

"…Saint Mungo's?"

His heart ached when he saw Snape's lost expression, as if the whole world had suddenly just stopped making sense. Harry could relate; his own had seemed to cease making any sort of reason the day he leapt back in time.

"Yeah, but never mind that," Harry spoke, shaking his head fiercely. "This Curse…it hit you too?"

"Yes," Snape finally uttered after a period of silence, his curtain of hair covering his face. "I was trying to fight it, but I am magically exhausted. I couldn't do it, and I ended up here…where ever _here_ is."

"Unconsciousness," Harry repeated, this time with surety. "And if you're here, then you must be alive. I'm simply sleeping at the moment, nothing too serious, I think. Magically exhausted, you said? Can I help you in any way?"

Snape gave an awful, deadened laugh. "If you can save me. But you can't. No one can."

"You were fighting the curse right? But you couldn't finish it because you were low on magic," Harry retraced, speaking as the idea came into his mind. "What if I give you some?"

An odd, baffled noise emerged from Snape's throat. "What?"

"If I give you mine?" Harry wondered aloud, hesitantly reaching over and touching Snape's shoulder. It felt quite solid. "Can't I…well, _lend_ you some? If it'll keep you alive, you can take all of it; Merlin knows I can't use magic in Azkaban anyway."

"You…you would do that?"

"Of course," Harry said, as if offended by his companion's doubt. "I owe you my life; without you, I probably would've gone insane ages ago. It's the least I can do. Besides, you can't die. You aren't supposed to die. I told you I wouldn't let your rot in Azkaban, remember? I won't let you die outside of it, either. Not while I can do something about it."

"You're an idiot," Snape exhaled, but his black eyes weren't cold at all, lit with—dare he think it, _fondness_.

Harry smiled, pleased. "But you'll accept my magic? Can you use it?"

"Yes," Snape nodded quietly, peering into Harry's one-eyed stare. "If your speculations are correct, and we are indeed sharing unconsciousness, then I can safely assume we are connected enough that, despite the distance, the transfer of magic shouldn't be very difficult at all."

"Perfect, then. How can I give it to you?"

"You can't _give it to me_, per say. Here, give me your hands."

Harry nervously placed his remarkably dry palms into Snape's own, staring awkwardly at his taller companion's face. He wasn't sure if this was really happening, but something inside of him insisted that _yes_, this was quite real. And if he could do anything to help Severus, then he would do it without question.

"What's wrong?" he asked tentatively, when Snape did not seem to move, staring at their joint hands with something akin to confusion. He supposed it was because Snape was surprised that he could feel him; indeed, despite the fact that they were in this 'unconsciousness' and were mere projections of their physical selves, Harry could feel Snape's fingers clutched tightly around his palms as if they were the real thing.

"What happened to your hand?" Snape asked then, startling the young man.

"What?"

"Your finger," Snape clarified, still staring blankly at the mangled limb.

Harry glanced down at his left hand, following Snape's gaze, realization pouring into him a moment later. "Oh," he murmured, voice oddly hollow. "That."

Truthfully, Harry had almost forgotten about it; it ached no more than the rest of his body did at all times, and thus, was easily ignored. And after so long spent in darkness, he had not recalled the loss of his finger for quite some time now. Taking a good gander at it, though, Harry internally winced. It had not scarred very neatly—healing skin had left his ring finger sort of like a shriveled stump, ugly and lifeless.

"A cellmate bit it off in a fight," he said simply.

Snape looked slightly green around the gills, sickened, perhaps wondering if that would've been his fate as well had they not made their silent, mutual truce all those months ago. Harry didn't dare ask.

"You said you were affected by the Curse as well?" Snape asked suddenly, his dark gaze drawn to the visible gauze over Harry's face.

"Yes," Harry nodded slowly. "It…the Curse, I mean. It took my sight…" He shuddered violently at the memory, sadness ripping through him. He would never be able to see from his right eye again; unless he got himself one of those revolving glass eyes like good old Moody—and he was definitely _not_ planning on getting anything similar to that disgusting prop—he would remain one-eyed for the rest of his life.

"I am sorry," Snape said after a slight pause, surprising Harry by apologizing.

"What for?" Harry said incredulously. "You didn't force me to hang around you, or meddle around with your affairs." His face twisted. "In fact, you've been telling me to bugger off for a long time ago, and I never listened. I guess now's a good time to say sorry for being such a pest. I know I've caused you enough trouble."

"Forget about it for now," Snape shook his head, closing his eyes as he gathered his willpower and returned to the subject at hand. "I have to explain a few things before we begin. I created this Curse when I was younger, and therefore, only I know how to remove it. I designed it to protect a specific location or object, and harm any person that was not myself if anyone tried to take it—which is why I was quite shocked when it turned against me. I guess it must've perceived you as an intruder and simply went berserk, attacking everything in close range."

"Oh Merlin," Harry whispered, shocked. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry."

Snape stared at him. "No you dolt!" He exclaimed immediately, honestly shocked at Harry's undeserving remorse. "I didn't say that to make you feel guilty."

Harry smiled slightly when Snape seemed to blush a brick scarlet, embarrassed at his own outburst.

"Now, if you'll let me go on…" Snape recovered quickly, clearing his throat and diligently ignoring his still slightly red face. "The Curse's effects are quite simple—nothing too complex. It's a mix between a repelling charm and an incinerating hex if the former is bypassed. The reason why it is Dark is because it also takes _a sacrifice_ once triggered; I correctly assumed at the time that this last addition would be enough to kill anyone who attempted to breach the Curse, taking life as payment. However, since I—the Curse's caster—was present at the moment of it being triggered, it must have skewered up the sacrificial process, and instead took something of great importance from its victims."

"A sacrifice?" Harry echoed, confused. "Come again?"

Snape's grip on his hands tightened marginally, relaxing jerkily when he realized he might be hurting Harry's fingerless hand. Harry shook his head minutely, smiling briefly at Snape's care, allowing the dark man to realize that the old injury had stopped hurting a long time before. In response, the older wizard nodded shortly in acceptance. These rapid-fire assumptions and subsequent replies all happened in silence and in the space of a split second, but neither of them seemed to have noticed this little detail. It had all seemed so natural, so instinctive in fact, that their brains merely overlooked their instant communication and went on.

"Yes. It took your sight; it is taking my magic." The older man continued on from his previous tangent, his eyes lowered. "It is a terrible curse. I am sorry you had to suffer through it. If only I hadn't been such an idiot when I was younger…knowing all this, do you still want to help me?"

Hearing this, Harry squeezed the other's hands gently, causing Snape to look at him once more, startled at the unexpected tenderness. "Stop feeling guilty. We're not dead yet, and, if I haven anything to do with it, we won't be anytime soon. Besides, you're the only one who can fix this, right? The only one who can remove a Dark Curse is its creator or its caster."

"Where'd you come across that?" Snape asked, curious. "Very few know this fact."

It was the reason so many Light Wizards fell to Dark Curses. They assumed a Healer could take care of any Dark hex they brushed by; such fools. Only said spell's caster or a competent Dark Wizard could counter-act anything of a similar Dark nature. This was also one of the many reasons why Dark Magic was banned almost everywhere—only some people could counter-act them, and thus, the Dark Arts were almost impossible to control and regulate in an orderly society.

Harry blinked, feeling a vague tugging in his mind, a frown marring his scarred face at the question. "Um…" There was something nagging him, just at the tips of his lips, almost as if he were trying to remember of something that was obvious but at the same time obscured from his memory. "Er…"

"Well, never you mind. You are correct, in any case." His lips twisted into a bitter, cynical smirk. "You have the caster and a Dark Wizard before you; if your magic proves sufficient, I am quite sure I will be able to free both you and myself from its clutches. Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Harry nodded, still reeling from all the information. This was the first time Snape had talked so much to him, and so civilly; he supposed it was the fact that they were both 'unconscious' and close to death, survival solely guaranteed by their mutualism. Nonetheless, he was grateful. "What do I do?"

"First things first; How do you locate me when you appear as a ghost using that…_Spirit-travel _you are so fond of using?"

"I feel a tugging," the young man described slowly. "It's like a trail. I simply follow it, I guess."

"That sounds close enough, I suppose. Try it again. I would've connected our magical paths myself, but I don't have enough energy. Just…reach out to me," Snape sneered at his incapability of expressing the process eloquently. "Try to visualize it, if it helps."

Harry scowled good-naturedly. "I know how to do it. Give me a second."

He closed his eye and slowly relaxed. He was already unconscious—it should not be hard to feel the familiar tugging. Indeed, there it was; it had always been there, subtly guiding him to Snape in the past. Having the real man before him made it infinitely easier. He felt a familiar floating feeling, and then, with one great lurch, he leapt off a mental springboard, hesitantly reaching out with his magic and touching Snape's visible core.

"Good," Snape breathed, apparently having felt Harry's magic, his fingers twitching around Harry's own encouragingly. "Now…ease it in. I'll let you."

It was with a strangely aroused feeling that Harry did as Severus asked; he simply let his spiritual essence flow into the other's, immediately noting how it seemed to merge with Snape's own weak-looking spirit, reviving it. Snape's grip on his hands tightened even further, but rather than serving as a distraction, it comforted him; he squeezed back reassuringly.

"All right," Snape said quietly, both their eyes still closed. "Keep doing that. I'm going to destroy the Curse within myself first, and then you'll have to allow me access to your own core to do the same to you. Do not stop pouring in magic; I will tell you when it is done. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Harry murmured absentmindedly, still busy letting his magic pour into Snape's own reserves. It was a very strange, very silent process; the only noise he could perceive in their mutual unconsciousness was the soft, almost imperceptible sigh of air as they breathed steadily.

A thickness slowly began to envelop them, like a chilly, dense blanket. Harry felt goose bumps rise in his arms, instinctively knowing this was Dark magic. Rather than begin to panic and close himself off, as he perhaps would've done so many years ago, he relaxed, allowing it to flow through him.

Snape's breathing pattern gradually changed, becoming slightly quicker and shorter. His hands reflexively jerked in Harry's comforting grip, blood pumping furiously to his fingertips. Harry could feel no sweat on either of their palms, but he was quite sure that wherever their living bodies were, they must be in quite a state.

His magic was being sucked at an amazing rate. It was solely due to the fact that he'd become quite adept at controlling his spiritual magic over the past year that he did not loose his hold on it completely. Harry allowed it to trickle into Snape at a steady, unchanging rate, not wanting to use it up all in one go. He silently prayed to God, to Merlin—to whoever was listening—that Severus would be able to do it; he was their only form of salvation. Without him, they would both die.

Abruptly, the blanket of Dark magic began to recede back into the nothingness it had appeared from. Not two seconds later, Snape collapsed. Harry, shocked, could do nothing more than catch him, breaking their linked hands in order to wrap his arms around the other's lanky frame.

"Snape?" he cried, shoving even more magic into Snape's body despite the fact that his eye had snapped open; he refused to let go of their connection, determined to somehow save him. "Snape? Are you all right? Answer me! _Severus_!"

"Oh shut up," croaked the fallen wizard weakly, voice oddly muffled as it was buried at an awkward angle in Harry's shoulder. "I am fine; it's done."

"Oh good God," Harry exhaled explosively, automatically embracing Snape's limp body even tighter, shifting him into a more comfortable position. "You idiot, you fucking scared me! I thought…" He said nothing more, burying his head into the other's shoulder, unable to form the words. He was not sure what he would've done if Snape had died—perhaps die along with him. It was frightening how important Snape now seemed to him, compared to what the man had been a mere three years ago.

But everything was different now, wasn't it? And Harry, despite everything having gone to shit since he'd been left back here in this miserable pocket of time, was glad he'd changed. He could not imagine a life without Severus anymore. He didn't want to ever have to live one, either.

Snape opened his eyes weakly, too tired to pull away. They technically weren't holding each other, anyway; despite the fact that he was quite effectively sprawled all over the 'floor', supported solely by Harry's tight hug, they were still suspended in unconsciousness. This was merely their minds forming magical replications of their physical matter, nothing more.

Still, he noted distantly, Harry's embrace was quite comfortable.

"You can stop pouring magic into me," Snape muttered, the influx of energy beginning to feel like a foreign sort of pleasant tinge all throughout his body. "Save it for now; give me a second and we can restart."

Harry did stop shoving his energy into the other's body, but nonetheless allowed the connection to remain open, his magic waiting patiently in the limbo between each other, like a comforting shadow. After a few more seconds, the silence became somewhat awkward, what with having Snape in his arms. Still, neither of them made a move to shift away.

"Will you be all right?" Harry asked quietly, voice slightly muffled as he was still buried in Snape's shoulder.

"What do you mean?" Snape murmured, subdued. "If you are speaking about the Curse, then yes, I will make a full recovery."

Harry shook his head. "I mean…do you still think you are…crazy, I guess?" He winced at how it had come out, but the other did not seem angry. Quite the contrary—he seemed to be carefully thoughtful.

"Not quite," Snape admitted slowly. "Though you must realize our situation is quite bizarre. I hesitate to speak so freely, but I think we might actually be able to talk to each other like this because of some sort of magical bond. It must have formed when…when that wand exploded. There is no other way to explain it besides insanity. But you are real, aren't you?"

"I am," Harry nodded vigorously. "As are you. And now I know I am no ghost; I am most definitely alive."

A sour, half-amused smirk curled the Potion Master's lips. "And yet, despite this, you are still quite capable of haunting me."

Snape pulled away then, and Harry felt an emptiness envelop him once they had separated. Far too shy, he refused to meet the other's eyes; similarly, Snape allowed his own to settle on his lap, vaguely embarrassed by his weakness.

"I do not mean to be a bother," the young man whispered, voice audible despite it softness. There was nothing else in this darkness but their light breathing, after all. "If you wish it, I can stop coming to you. I can only imagine how disconcerting it must be to be able to see something no one else can. I don't blame you for hating me."

"I don't hate you," Snape said instantly, shocking them both by the vigor in his voice. "And…I don't mind you coming in to talk. Just…well, try not to pop in when I'm with someone else. You may have managed to convince me of my sanity, but I doubt any one else would agree if I start talking to thin air."

"I understand," Harry said, grinning from ear to ear. He was thankful there was no pain here, or else he was quite sure both his facial muscles and damaged throat would've been aching like no tomorrow for being abused so much. "I will try. Now that I've transferred magic, I think that I can figure out how to transfer words without shocking you."

"I—" Snape seemed to be unsure, almost hesitant. "I would like that."

Harry beamed.

"Now," Snape continued, shaking his head as if to dispel the sudden bout of sentimentality. "I'm going to destroy the Curse in you. I've had a lot of experience fighting back Dark Curses on other people, so I'm quite sure I can do it. You have to let me, however; it'll feel somewhat bizarre and awkward, not to mention very intrusive and possibly repulsive, but I promise to work as quick as possible. How is your magical reserve?"

"Strong enough for another go," Harry assured him brightly. "Yours?"

"I don't know how long we've been here, but it seems to be stable at the moment." He allowed a pensive tilt of the lips to cross his face at the thought. "To have fed me a little less than half my entire magical reserve and still have enough left over for 'another go', as you put it so eloquently…I am amazed. I must admit that you may indeed be a very powerful wizard. How ever did you manage to contain so much magic within Azkaban?"

Harry blushed, knowing quite clearly that Snape did not give out compliments—let alone such high praise—very often. He was flattered, and very pleased. He grinned shyly, raising and hand to his long, bound hair and laughing in embarrassment.

"Uh…well, I dunno."

Snape gave an all-suffering sigh, raising his eyes to the heavens as if asking for the mental strength to deal with such an idiot. "Alas," he murmured good-naturedly. "It seems that power does not attest to intelligence."

"Hey!" Harry spoke hotly, but broke off into a chuckle, unable to remain angry. "Aw, well, that's what I have you for then, huh?"

"Indeed," Snape smirked, and outstretched his hand.

Harry took it without a further thought, a cheerful grin plastered on his face.

It was back; their camaraderie, this natural banter that seemed to be so instinctual. Harry had not known how much he had missed it until it was gone—after an entire year of cold, Dark and loneliness, this sort of informal 'reunion' of their previous friendship was like the greatest gift he could ever have received.

"All right," Snape began, voice once again solemn and serious. "I have enough magic to reach out for you this time. You'll know when I get there; I will be seeking your magical core for the Dark curse, and I will attack it directly. I will not lie to you and say you will not feel anything—you are not stupid enough to fall for that, nor do I wish to deceive you into a false sense of security."

Harry nodded shortly. "I understand," he said firmly. "Do what you must."

"Wait, I want you to know all of the minute details so you won't panic during the process. If I am distracted by anything or if I let go of the battle for even a moment, we will both be liable to perish. I am being very serious about this, because I need you to remain still—both mentally and magically. Since I will be 'in your body', so to speak, I will be able to perceive any stray thought or intention you may have, and any of these will be sufficient to break my concentration."

"Like Legilimency, huh?" Harry asked absentmindedly. "So what, you want me to 'clear my mind'?"

Snape blinked, but did not inquire as to how the other knew of the two techniques. "Not quite," he explained. "But yes, sort of. I don't want you to block me out, however. What we are doing now is more akin to 'sharing magic' than 'meeting minds'. There is a distinct difference in the logistics of each and their processes."

"Oh," Harry said. He hadn't gotten half of what the man was saying, but understood enough to assume that he was just basically stating that Harry shouldn't try to eject him out, since he was helping. All right, he could do that—in fact, even if he wanted to shoot the other out, he was incapable of Occlumency. It would've been futile to try.

Rolling his eyes, Snape snorted. "By your expression, I am assuming that flew right over your head. Never mind, forget it—all I'm saying is that my magic will feel invasive, indeed, _hostile_; the Dark Curse has been in you body long enough that it is starting to bind with your magical core, leeching at it subtly. Or at least, eating away at the physical matter of your eyes. Therefore, when I attack it, it will feel as if I am hurting you; just know that I am not. The agony is merely the separation of the Curse from you being."

"Okay," Harry nodded, allowing a crooked grin to spread across his face. "I get it. You don't have to worry, I'm no stranger to pain, anyway."

"All right," Snape nodded slowly, taking everything in. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," the young man said, forcing himself not to sound exasperated. Snape was merely being thorough—still, it was getting repetitive!

Exhaling, Snape gave a short, curt nod and tightened his grip on Harry's hands, closing his eyes and focusing on his magic. The connection was smooth, easy, facilitated by the fact that they'd done it before. Harry shifted slightly into a more comfortable seating position, Snape's magical presence within him feeling more than intrusive—it felt oddly intimate, and that alarmed him. Slow, foreign amusement rippled through him like a soft ocean wave, Snape's emotion as clear as his own. And although the experience was not all together unpleasant, it was decidedly stranger than when Harry had simply opened his magic out to Snape instead of the other way around.

"Keep calm," Snape said gently, somewhere in the distance. "It will feel odd, but it solely because you are unused to another presence inside your core."

"Sorry," Harry uttered, and his voice sounded miles away.

Silence once again fell upon them, Snape's concentration almost tangible in the air. Like a slow, moving tide, Snape slithered into his mind, his magic feeling like probing rods of electricity all throughout his body. For a few seconds, Harry was half-relieved by the absence of pain—this notion was quickly cleared of as a horrible, agonizing jerk ripped within him. It felt as if he were being torn in two; in that undefined, altered place of his where he'd curled when the Dementors ate at his head, he whimpered, vaguely hearing himself howl and writhe in pain elsewhere.

_Calm_, Snape's voice urged him, soothing. _Calm._

Harry was wrestling for control, in the thralls of a particularly vicious spasm, when he suddenly felt two arms encircle him, warm tingling from the contact. It was difficult, but this helped him center himself, shove away all the pain and stop fighting.

_That's it_, he thought he heard someone say. _Perfect. Keep calm_.

Snape's magic was beyond poking, beyond searing—it seemed to have melded with his own as it tore through the Curse, killing him, healing him...if Harry were a poetic man, he would thought it something akin to _rebirth_. For an eternity it seemed Harry would be lost in this fiery, unending agony, when abruptly, almost gently, it ceased. As one, both wizards shared a spine-tingling shudder as Snape drew away his magic, slipping out of Harry's core like an icy claw. As they surfaced back into their shared unconsciousness, it felt as if they'd just been dumped with a bucket of freezing water.

"Fuck," Harry whispered, trembling, raising a cautious hand to his throbbing eye, which felt as if it were responsible for causing the mind-splitting headache he was currently suffering through. "Oh_fuck_, ouch."

"Eloquent," Snape muttered, rubbing his forehead with two fingers absently. "As always."

Harry glanced up at his companion, a small, tickling grin rising up in his face. "I dare not disappoint," he drawled, earning himself a muted chuckle. "Is it gone?" he ventured a few minutes later, hesitant.

"Yes," Snape nodded, meeting his gaze once more. "Yes, I do believe we are both free of it."

"Where'd it go?" Harry wondered aloud in a sudden burst of inquisitiveness. "Where does magic go, once we're done with it, anyway? Nothingness?"

Severus snorted. "Don't be a child," he said, but his tone betrayed his amusement. "Safe to say, it is no longer within us. I sincerely don't care where it is as long as it's far away from me."

"You're no fun," Harry said, beaming. His headache had all but faded now. "Hey. Thanks, Snape. I…I truly appreciate all the things you've done. To help me, and shit. Stuff. Seriously." He coughed, embarrassed.

"Prince," Snape cleared his throat, twitching slightly as if uncomfortable.

"Uh," Harry paused, startled. "What?"

"Call me Prince," Snape clarified, eyeing him warily, as if sizing up a particularly nasty dragon.

Harry snorted, but smiled, not without a little curiosity. "Very well, your Majesty. Why the sudden change of name, pray tell?"

The dark man glanced down at his hands, as if contemplating something. "I…don't have good memories associated with my last name." He shrugged bitterly. "My mother's maiden name…Prince. Its all that's left untouched by insults."

"Hm," Harry nodded, suddenly looking mature beyond his years, his eyes old and understanding. "Then thanks, Prince. For everything, I mean." He paused, hesitant. He'd been judged under as Harry James Potter, despite no one making a connection. Would it…? He'd give it a shot, he decided. There was nothing left to hide. "You can call me Evans, then."

"…oh?" Snape shot him a look, raising an eyebrow. "Harry Evans?"

"Just Evans. Harry…that's just someone I'm not, anymore. You know?"

Snape raised a slight, inquisitive eyebrow, but pushed no further. "Very well," he acceded, tasting the new name as if it were a delicate wine. "Evans."

Harry smiled brilliantly, feeling free, almost as if something inside of him was unclenching for the first time in years. He was still Harry, still Harry James Potter—but for now…Merlin, _now and forever_…now he could be simply the Evans for Snape's Prince. It rang a nice bell in his head.

"It isn't cold anymore," Harry noted out of the blue, recalling the icy feeling they'd suffered when Severus had unstuck their magic, "huh, Prince?"

"No," Snape agreed, peering into him with endless black eyes. "It's remarkably warm now, Evans."

* * *

If you liked or hated it, please feel free to drop by a review.

As for the whole "Prince" and "Evans" thing...I had this planned out since the beginning of the story. After all, I began to write this fic wayy before Book 7 came out and I knew of Severus and Lily. So consider it a cool coincidence or something xD


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note:** Now beta'd!!! Thank you _Cessations!!_

* * *

**Chapter 24 - **_Momentary Touch_

Severus awoke to Poppy's frantic muttering, buzzing in his ears. When she realized he was alert and amazingly still alive, the mediwitch gave the man quite the earful for having scared her so much. Apparently, he'd been out for over an hour, continuously oozing dark magic even in unconsciousness. She confessed that she hadn't expected him to live; to find him healthily once more had shocked her speechless.

"I apologize for causing you undue worry," Severus said in his usual fashion, smirking.

Huffing, she force-fed him some more replenishing potions, having managed to get her hands on a relatively powerful and quite effective Restorative Draught. Feeling much better overall, Snape made as if to get up and leave—only to be screeched to _hold it right there, Severus_!

After what seemed like another hour of argument, Poppy agreed to let Severus teach his classes for the day if he promised to come back to the Infirmary to be checked upon. Nodding dutifully, but not really intending to follow through, Snape flooed back to his room—the mediwitch allowed him to use her personal fireplace in order to spare him the embarrassment of having to amble down the hallways half-naked—and changed into something more suiting to his aesthetic taste.

Robed in black once done with a quick, refreshing shower, Severus felt like new. Although he was still smarting at the loss of his beloved wand, he nonetheless settled for an oak replacement in one of his storage cupboards—one that didn't tend to backfire on him as much as the dead wizard's did—and headed towards his classes. He arrived a good ten minutes beforehand, settling down into his seat and finally pausing to contemplate all that had happened.

_Harry_, he thought to himself. _No, Evans…in Saint Mungo's_? He briefly considered going to see him—but then stopped. Albus would never let him be if he found out he'd wandered willingly into the hospital. Then again, the old coot had not figured out where he'd gone—or why!—since he had not come down to pester him yet; would he perhaps have a chance to visit his companion?

As if in memory of said man, his right arm began to itch, though not uncomfortably. Allowing himself a small smile at the thought, Snape rested his left hand upon his other arm, rubbing it softly, feeling the small bumps of the white scars peppering his limb through the cloth. Any further nostalgic thoughts were banished from his mind as the door to his class opened and in poured the students, chattering amongst themselves as usual. They immediately fell silent at seeing him, perhaps bemoaning their fate as their most hated Potions professor was back in full regale. One girl, however, did not seem to notice him and the sudden silence, continuing to talk with a very annoying high-pitched tone.

"Five points, Miss Duff, for talking after the bell." Snape murmured suavely, cutting through her whiny tirade. He spotted a late straggler kissing his partner goodbye outside his class, who then sauntered in, unaware of his professor's menacing glare until the last moment. "And _detention_, Higgs—please refrain from smothering your girlfriend in my presence. Have a seat; we are going to have a test today."

_And all was well_, thought Snape pleasantly as a chorus of muffled groans emerged from the class.

ººº

"You're recovering well," Matilda Bonham smiled at Harry. "Is the hospital food settling well with you?"

Harry nodded vigorously, spooning up another forkful of the warm oatmeal he was being allowed to eat, taking special care to savor the melted brown sugar sprinkling the meal. After Azkaban, anything with even the slightest twinge of taste was delicious. He'd experienced a curious discovery earlier today, though—he could not eat anything with salt without immediately feeling very ill. The mediwitch agreed with him that it was probably because of Azkaban as well. The prison was centered in the middle of a very cold, very salty ocean, and it was inevitable the air be stuffed with the white particles. Since the only ventilation in the complex was to open up slits from the cold outside, the saturated wind poured in and permeated cells and cellmates alike.

"One more potion, and that's it for today," Matilda spoke softly, gently cupping the inmate's thin face as she helped him swallow the concoction. "There we go. Are you uncomfortable?"

"No ma'am," Harry mumbled, looking up at the woman shyly through shaggy hair.

After discovering that no one had bothered to give him a shower apart from a quick cleaning charm, the kind mediwitch had gone ballistic and helped Harry into a bath herself. She'd scrubbed him raw and somehow managed to shampoo his thick tresses of hair into silky strands, taking the time to snip off most of the clumps it as well. After that, Harry had been assured she was on his side; at least, as far as health was concerned.

After having lived in Azkaban for close to three years now, he was astonished there were still good people in the world. It both humbled and awed him into reverent silence. He didn't want to blow up his chance at being treated kindly because of his loose mouth, after all.

"Good," she patted his knee and eyed him curiously, inspecting his gaunt features. "You definitely look healthier than when you came in. There's finally some colour to your face, as well. The nutritional potions have truly made a difference…if you don't mind me saying so, without all that hair of yours, you look very young."

"I guess," Harry stumbled awkwardly, not sure on how to take the news. He hesitantly offered her a smile. Nineteen years of hell and he still looked 'young'…to him, it was a miracle he wasn't turning prematurely grey like Lupin.

"Hm," hummed Matilda contemplatively. "There was no existent file for your medical records until you came here, did you know? I'm glad you haven't had any allergic reactions to the potions. Imagine that! The incompetence in this hospital sometimes astounds me."

Harry twiddled his thumbs beneath the sheets, somewhat wary. He had been incarcerated under his true name—that of Harry James Potter, a remarkably common moniker since the Boy-Who-Lived business, so there was no real suspicion—but no one had bothered to check his 'records'. Due to this, in all political senses, he was nobody. Matilda had taken care to write up a file under his name, however, and this had brought up the fact that he was nonexistent in the Wizarding World.

When asked why this was so, Harry had had to babble up some fictional story about how he had been born in a street corner and had never been registered. Of all the things he'd lied about, it was this that hurt the most. Harry loved his mother, and it was painful to have had to say that his parents had abandoned him in some alleyway. It was as if he were spitting on their memory, their martyred sacrifice.

Astoundingly, the witch had taken this all in stride and had promised him she would help him get registered and receive all the benefits being an English citizen entailed. Matilda had also explained that it was his lack of existence in the political sense that had gone against him when he'd been brought up to trial—it was this that ultimately gave the court full rights to throw him in prison without further inspection.

"Thank you," Harry spoke up abruptly, glancing at her uneasily, as if she would suddenly scoff at him for his gratefulness. "You've been…very kind to me."

"You're a charming young man," Matilda laughed softly, and patted his knee once more before standing. Her face was one of morose, empathetic sadness. "I will miss you. I am sorry to say you will be transferred back to Azkaban in a few days—I tried to hassle with the aurors in charge of you so that you could stay until after Christmas, at the very least, but they wouldn't have it. It appears they are rather irritated at having to look after a prisoner, even if it is for his own health."

Despite the bad news, Harry was incredibly touched. This woman had truly gone to extreme lengths to ensure he—a murderer, for all she knew!—receive good, fair treatment.

"It's okay," Harry reassured her, willing her to believe his sincerity. "Really, I can't…I mean, wow. No one…no one's fought for me in a long time. The effort you put in—the fact that you_tried_—that's enough. Don't worry about it. It was really kind of you. Thank you—for everything. Really."

"Some one needs to take a stand," Miss Bonham spoke quietly, firmly. "For fair treatment. The way they treat prisoners, even if they are murderers, Death Eaters, whatever…it's inhuman. It's not right. I'm not going to let it keep going on." A small smile broke through her fierce tirade. "I will see you again, I promise. I am going to make a difference—I'm going to change all of this."

Green eyes settled on a mottled brown. "I believe you," Harry said with conviction. "I know you will."

And he did.

Two days later, he was shipped back to Azkaban. His new cell was on the third level, testament to Matilda's influence. Harry relished at the fact that he had a working toilet again, as well as a bed of straw. He felt higher than he had in ages. Severus—nay, _Prince_—and he had reconciled. He had a bigger cell with functioning facilities and a fucking _window_. Life was good, right now. Better than it had been for years.

A thin, delicate, fragile ray of hope lined his heart, and for the first time in a very long time, Harry dared to believe he would make it out of here alive and _sane_.

ººº

Christmas holidays were a blessing. The sudden, encompassing silence after the chaos that was students was heaven. Snape's usually brisk stride slowed down to an ambling walk as he cruised through the empty hallways, basking in his solitude. He was looking forward to Harry's visit tonight—the prisoner, who had been relocated to Azkaban a week prior, had appeared to him the day before to briefly tell him he had something special for him. Rapidly getting used to Harry's bizarre but functional form of traveling, Severus couldn't help but itch in anticipation at seeing his old friend.

_Evans_, he thought, not without a bit of irony. _We all wish to begin anew, don't we?_

Though he was happy to be able to be alone, loneliness was not uncommon in the depths of his dungeon. It was nice to be able to spend silence with another without the need for speech. Harry was wild, enthusiastic and at times overbearing—but at the same time, he was quite capable of hovering calmly in shared silence without interruption. He demanded nothing of Snape—not his affection, not his attention—but gave his company anyway. When asked, Evans would simply smile quietly, and that was enough for both of them. Severus had taken to reading his notes to the ghostly figure, explaining his budding research projects while Harry nodded and beamed and commented. They shared a purely symbiotic relationship that was slowly but surely growing to be a firm, inseparable friendship.

"Severus," a wizened old voice interrupted his contemplative walk, causing him to pause abruptly mid-stride. "How are you, my dear boy?"

"Headmaster," Snape tilted his head in acknowledgement, greeting the old man with a brisk nod. He crossed his arms over his chest and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Is there a reason for following me?"

"Not at all," Albus chuckled. "Must you always be so suspicious, my friend?" He was garbed in ridiculously bright orange robes with yellow stars, lined with a soft red. His slippers were a golden hue, peeking under his dress, well worn from use. His long white beard was tied with an equally golden ribbon, which braided down to waist-level. Snape almost visibly winced at the horrendous attire, hoping he wouldn't go blind. _Only you, Albus_, he thought with a mental sigh.

"It's an ingrained reaction," Severus drawled rather dryly. "Picked up from remaining in your company."

"Oh, you wound me," the Headmaster beamed. "So? How are you?"

They had not parted on good terms all those weeks back, but through the Headmaster's persistence and constant prodding, Severus had slowly let go of their fight. The Headmaster had never again mentioned Harry or his 'budding insanity', and Snape had never offered to bring it up. Eventually, he'd apologized for overreacting—not outright, of course! He was subtler than that; he was a Slytherin!—and that had been that. Albus had accepted it graciously and welcomed Severus again with open arms. On the contrary to his Potions Master, he was not known to hold grudges. It was what allowed him to give so many second chances to those that did not deserve them, after all.

"I am fine," Snape gave a slight shrug. "I am not complaining. Merlin forbid I ever miss the dunderheads making a ruckus all day."

"You miss someone though, don't you?" Albus murmured, hooded eyes twinkling as if he were into some big secret which Snape was not part of. "Severus?"

His first instinct was to narrow his eyes and snarl defensively, but he viciously curbed the urge and merely raised his eyebrow again. "And wherever did you get that impression, Headmaster?" he asked silkily. "Do I look like some lovesick fool to you?"

"Oh, nowhere. And you, my dear boy, love sick? I do believe I have never heard you utter both words together in reference to yourself in all my years of knowing you."

"Your point, Albus?" Severus growled in irritation, eyes flashing. As always, the Potions Master did not take well to teasing.

Respecting this, the Headmaster backed down. "Never mind me, Severus," Albus smiled gently. "Are you going to spend Christmas here?"

"Yes," Snape allowed cautiously. "My…_house…_is unavailable to me at the moment."

He would never call that thing his _home_, still standing or destroyed.

"Oh yes, I heard." Albus's eyes were twinkling again in the most mysterious manner. "A fire, I believe?"

Suspicious but not wanting to show it lest the Headmaster figure out just who had burned his house down and why, Severus shrugged carelessly. "Gas leak, I believe is what the muggles officially stated. I care not, either way. I never intended to live there again, in any case."

"Hm," the man hummed quietly. "Well, I am glad you are staying. You will have to attend the Christmas banquet with the rest of the remaining teachers, though! I will not have you holed up in your rooms, not on that jolly day!" He chuckled.

Snape sneered and deadpanned, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I will expect to see you then, Severus," the Headmaster smiled brightly, and raised an orange-robed hand to squeeze Snape's shoulder reassuringly. "Have a good day, my dear boy."

"Same to you, Albus," Snape muttered, nodding. Dumbledore turned around and began to whistle a festive tune as he walked away, a slight bounce to his step. Severus refrained from rolling his eyes at the scene, wondering to his insides how horribly cheerful and annoyingly brilliant Albus must have been as a child. This led him to speculate on the Headmaster's youth—the man never talked about it, not even to his closest associates. Minerva certainly knew nothing—and Severus _had_ searched, as per his natural habit as a spy.

It was disturbing that Snape knew so many potentially questionable facts about his colleges—Fillius still mourned a Parselmouth friend of his on the day of his death almost seventy years ago, whom he personally killed during the massacre in eastern Europe back in the early twentieth century; Trelawney's biological father was locked away in a wizarding prison called Nurmenguard all the way in Germany for having chosen the wrong side during Grindelwald's reign; even_Minerva _was not spared of an incriminating past, for he knew she had a dirt-poor drunken idiot of a nephew that she helped and visited every month—yet he knew almost absolutely _nothing_ on Albus.

He certainly wasn't unknown; he was the goddamned beacon of the Light for Merlin's sake, under the Potter brat of course. Still, there was next to nothing on his youth besides the fact that he had attended Hogwarts as a Gryffindor and graduated _summa cum laude_ at the very top of his year, going on to an explosively successful career in alchemy and transfiguration for the next half-century or so. (A/N: _Summa cum laude_ means "with the highest honor" or "with highest praise" and was often reserved for the top one percent of students, according to Wikipedia.)

The curious thing was that Albus had not dabbled at all in politics until well into the twentieth century, finally gaining power among the people after defeating the Dark wizard Grindelwald. There were no true accounts on the battle besides a few rumors that declared the fight to be the greatest duel in the history of wizard-kind and Dumbledore's own brief statement of how he oh-so-easily defeated the seemingly undefeatable wizard. So much of Albus's distant past was unknown; it truly frightened Severus how very well Dumbledore kept this under wraps without alerting even the slightest suspicion among the people and his followers. It was almost…_Slytherin_ of the Headmaster.

Of course, Snape was not an idiot. He knew very well how cunning the old man really was. To be able to become Headmaster of Hogwarts, one had to display traits from all four of the Houses, not only one: Albus was loyal, courageous, cunning and brilliant. There was no arguing this. Had Severus not had firm written evidence that clearly stated Dumbledore had been a Gryffindor during his school days, he never would have believed for a second that Albus could be in any house other than Slytherin.

Wandering away from this tangent of thought, Snape's thoughts resumed back to Harry as he walked past the decorative library entrance, headed for his dungeons. Together, as Prince and Evans, they had figured out the logistics of their 'bond', as it were. They both had agreed it had something to do with the wand-exploding incident they had shared in Azkaban, Severus revealing the scars on his right arm that Harry had mirrored on his own translucent left. By the fact that Harry possessed the uncanny ability to access Snape's mind if he so wished—something _no one else_ had ever been able to do—Severus understood that this was not solely physical, but magical as well. It seemed they shared not only their mind space, but their magic, too.

Actually, if not for the fact that they possessed their own individual bodies, it wouldn't have been too far of a stretch to say that they were practically the same person.

However disturbing it was to know that someone other than himself could read his surface thoughts, Severus was not truly adverse to the outcome of their joint situation. It was strangely nice to know he was not alone, not anymore. They were still working out the kinks of their bond, and had set ground rules for privacy and whatnot immediately upon discovering the extent of their connection.

"Someone's been thinking a lot," an amused voice emerged from his couch as he entered his private rooms.

"At least I actually think, Evans," Severus smirked, nodding in greeting towards the ghostly figure hovering over a cushion. "Unlike some people."

"Ouch," Harry smiled. "Touché, I guess. What took you so long?"

Snape walked over to a bookcase pushed against a wall and eyed the covers critically, seeking a specific title. "Long?" he scoffed with his back turned, absentmindedly brushing against their spines with a meandering finger. "I was not aware we had set a special timing for today's meeting."

"Meeting!" Though Severus was not facing Harry, he could practically hear the pout. "You make this sound so business like."

Severus peered over his shoulder, a raised eyebrow at the ready. "Business? I'll let you know I don't conduct _business_ in my private rooms." A slight shudder ran through his thin frame, as if the very notion brought him disgust. "That is reserved solely for places outside my personal chambers."

"Oh?" the translucent man grinned devilishly. "What sorts of activities_do_ you 'conduct' in your private rooms, then?"

Resisting the urge to snort in annoyance, Severus merely deadpanned an answer. "Things you wouldn't be very familiar with, considering the size of your massively underdeveloped brain—activities such as eating, sleeping and the like."

"I am very familiar with sleeping, I'll let you know," Harry floated over beside him. "Nothing else to do in Azkaban, after all. What are you looking for?"

"_Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them_," Severus muttered through thin lips. "Ironically, the location of the damn thing eludes me. Have you seen it?"

Harry tilted his head contemplatively to one side and then hit his open palm with a fist in realization. "I have, actually!" the young man gave a sly smile. "In fact, it's exactly what I wanted to show you."

"Hn?" Snape gave the other his full attention. "And what would this display entail, pray tell?"

"Come," Harry nodded, jerking his head to the side. "To your room. I'll show you there."

"You were in my room?" Severus asked, miffed. There was nothing incriminating in his chambers—at least, not anything that could be accessed by anyone other than himself—but it was still a breach of privacy.

"Just for a second—I was looking for your book and found it on the bedside. I didn't poke around or anything, I swear."

"That's right," Severus murmured to himself. "I did fall asleep reading it." He jerked back. "Still, that doesn't give you the right to look around in my room. Why were you looking for the book, anyway?"

"I wanted to read the section on Dementors," Harry explained apologetically. "They've been acting a bit strange for quite some time now and I was wondering if it was regular behavior, or maybe something more…_sinister_."

"Sinister?" Severus stared at him. "And, unless I am mistaken, you can take only spiritual form when outside your body. How were you expecting to turn to the given page if you cannot even touch the book without going through it?"

"That," Harry said furtively, "is what I wanted to show you."

They entered Snape's bedroom, the breezy gust of air flowing in through the charmed window greeting them. The floor was rugged a heavy-duty blue gray that complimented the wooden ceiling, simultaneously matching with the white granite walls as well. The bed was matrimonial sized and its thick covers a dusty green, with two thin graying pillows. There was a closet entrance to the left via an open doorway, as well as an assorted amount of knickknacks that had accumulated over the years lining the extreme corners. Overall the place was not very inviting, but it had a somewhat used feel to it that was comfortable to those who were familiar to its settings.

A precariously stacked pile of books lay closed on the bedside stand, with the _Magical Beasts_ text on the very top, flipped open to the index page.

"So, what was it that you wanted to show me?" Severus asked, coming up to the text.

"This," Harry motioned, and then—_picked up the book_.

They both stared at Harry's transparent hand as Snape unabashedly gawked. "What?" he garbled. "…how?"

"I have no idea," the young man murmured, hefting the book up and down. "I can still pass through walls and the like, but lately I've been feeling the air and the physical things below or before me. And just today I bumped into this very same beside table—I _felt_ it, and damn it, I haven't stubbed my toes _that _hard in_years_. So, once I'd gotten over the shock, I tried to grab your book and it _worked_."

Suddenly, as if sensing Harry's speech was done, the book slipped through his fingers and clattered to the ground.

"Though it only works for a few seconds," Harry concluded with a shake of his head. "Not very useful except for turning pages, I guess."

"This is extraordinary, Evans," Snape breathed. "Try it again, I want to see your hands…"

"All right," Harry accepted easily enough, floating down a bit and bending to reach the book. He grasped its spine and lifted it, handing it over to Severus, who accepted it cautiously.

"I see now," he murmured to himself quietly. "If you peer closely when you hold the book, your fingers are glowing a pale white. It must be your magic, Evans—it's manifesting physically for a few seconds, just like some spells will do."

Harry blinked, tilting his head to the side in confusion. "…huh?"

Snape sighed, struggling not to roll his eyes, and flipped the book open to the page on Dementors as he talked. "You've cast spells, haven't you?"

"Of course."

"Some spells, physical ones—I don't know, like a _Patronus_ and the like—is visible to the naked eye, yes? And technically speaking, you can touch it, _feel _it. I'm assuming here that since this hazy form of yours is translucent, it must be the manifestation of your magic. Therefore, being able to grasp some objects for a small amount of time is like an _Expecto_ _Patronus_ spell—temporary, but it still affects the physical world."

"Uh…_huh_." Harry said slowly. "Uh, no, that just went right over my head._What_?"

"Never you mind," Snape shook his head forcefully, sighing in exasperation. "I will never be able to get anything into that thick skull of yours. Forget it."

"Don't get mad," Harry pleaded, reaching out instinctively. "I'm sorry; I can't concentrate on a single thing for a very long time since coming back to Azkaban—it's stupid, I know, and I should be getting it but—"

They both froze then, realizing what was happening.

Harry was touching Snape's shoulder, his feeble grasp very real.

Then, as if due to the realization, Harry's hand once again fell through and hovered limply through Severus's arm, transparent once more.

"Whoa," Harry gaped. "That was…pretty cool."

"Indeed," Snape said slowly. "That was…cool." He blinked, and held out his hand. "Place your palm above mine. I want to time how long it takes for your physical touch to become spiritual matter again."

"Okay," the young man nodded, doing so. Snape's hand was warm, and Harry couldn't resist curling his fingers slightly to feel his muscles flex. He'd missed the feeling of another's warmth—it was nice to receive it again, even if it was solely a small touch like this.

"Ten seconds, approximately," Snape murmured silkily as Harry's hand fell through once more. "Longer than last time. Your hand was indeed _cool_—but I'm sure it became warmer through my body heat. Do you think temperature has anything to do with you becoming physical and vice versa? Also…when you were holding the book and speaking, I'm sure the time was much longer: perhaps touching another magical being in comparison to a simple book has something to do with it as well?"

"I have no idea," Harry shrugged, looking at his hand curiously. "We could experiment around, but I'm sure all this 'becoming physical' business is tiring my time span considerably. I can feel the tugging to go back to my body again; at this rate, I'll have to return in about five minutes. Bugger."

"Hm," Snape's black eyes were glittering with something. He carefully reached out and placed his hand gently across Harry's cheek.

Startled, Harry's eye rose to meet Snape's, mouth slightly open.

"Do you feel that?" Severus asked, the room having gone very quiet.

"Yeah," Harry breathed, closing his eye gently. "Wow."

"Seven seconds," Snape concluded as his hand suddenly felt no resistance and passed harmlessly through Harry's neck and chest, back to hanging limply at his side. "Even less. Perhaps you have a daily limit, like how long you can stay visible before having to go 'back', as you call it?"

Harry chuckled. "You are a scientist at heart, Prince."

"Scientist? Ah, the muggle practice—I haven't heard that work in years." Snape eyed Harry curiously. "That's right, you had told me you were a half blood."

"Is that a problem?" Harry asked Severus, eyes solemn and a bit sad.

"Not at all," Severus shook his head. "I'm a half blood too."

"The Half-Blood Prince," Harry laughed, beaming. "I like it!"

Severus smiled mysteriously. "Something like that."

The tiny tugging feeling had increased to an almost unbearable degree, and Harry frowned unhappily. "Oh," he sighed. "I have to go."

Snape was staring at Harry, eyes wide.

"Um, is it that shocking?" Harry grinned, scratching his long mop of hair shyly. "Don't stare at me like that, you dork, I'll be back tomorrow, I promise. Besides, I still have to give you your present."

"Not that," Severus growled, placing a hand on his chest, eyes still quite wide. "I…I can feel it too…it's like a _tugging_. Ugh…it's sucking my magic—"

"What?" Harry stared.

"Your magic is tugging me—"

"What do you—"

Harry could not finish the sentence, because all of a sudden the horrible portkey feeling was back, sending him flying through the countryside back into his body—all in the space of about three seconds. He came awake with a gasp, coughing and sputtering. The unholy cold of Azkaban seeped back into his wretched bones, causing Harry to shake uncontrollably.

"Oh bugger," he heard Snape say.

Wait…_what_?

Harry's head snapped up, and he stared at the translucent figure of his former cellmate floating a few inches above the ground. "No way…" he breathed, his voice slightly hoarse from lack of use.

"What the fuck did you do?" Snape snarled, staring in confusion at his hands.

"I didn't do anything!" Harry whispered, waving his skinny arms. "I swear it! I'm not very sure what's happening either…why'd you come with me? And _how_?"

"It seems we have switched places…" Snape muttered, contemplative. "Is this also because of our bond?"

"What sort of fucked up bond would do something like that?"

"Ours," groaned Snape morosely. "And oh Merlin, my _body_…if Albus finds it strewn across my bedroom—"

"Nothing'll happen to your body except that it will be a bit weak once you go back to it, since you've been gone from it for a while. But I guess it will pretty much look like a dead corpse…did I ever tell you about that time when I came back to my body and some aurors were crowding around me, thinking me dead? It was pretty funny the way they jumped back when I woke up, they thought I was an Inferius for a second, ha-ha—"

"This is no laughing matter, Evans," Snape hissed, floating agitatedly. "If I don't get back soon, Albus will become suspicious. Merlin—how do I even _get_ back?"

Harry became serious. "Just concentrate on your magical core. Your body is naturally in tune with it, since they're basically the same thing, just different materials. If you do that, you'll feel the tugging again. It'll bring you back."

Severus closed his eyes and five seconds later blinked them back open. "I feel it," he nodded calmly, subdued. "I apologize for panicking before. I'd best go back to my body, however. Maybe this time I'll be able to visit you rather than the other way around?"

"That sounds grand," Harry laughed. "Let's just hope we both don't try to do that at the same time! Who knows where we'd end up then—perhaps in the middle of Hogwarts and Azkaban?"

"An experiment for another time, then," Snape nodded, and paused. "I have a gift of my own for you, just so you know."

"Can't wait to get it," the young man beamed. "See you later, Prince."

With that final farewell, Snape disappeared. Harry sighed, leaning back onto his straw bed. The third floor was on ground level, so at least his window wasn't underwater. But the spray of the sea still carried in, and it was terribly cold. He closed his eyes and curled into a ball, trying to ignore the chill. A wave of terrible memories arose abruptly, savagely beating against his mind.

"Four days till Christmas," Harry whispered to himself, shivering. "Just a little longer, and they'll go away."

His cell bars rattled unsettlingly as a crowd of five Dementors pushed against it aggressively, eerie noises erupting from their bottomless hoods. Their long fingers stretched out, clawing at the air, almost as if they wished to come in by force and consume Harry.

"Just four more days," Harry breathed jerkily, half-sobbing as Lily screamed her last yet again. "Four more."

* * *

Thank you for reading! Please review if you enjoyed this chapter! 


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note:** Hello my beloved readers! Here's the next chapter, another month along...winces I won't apologize any longer though, I'll just hope you enjoy :D

Thanks again to my wonderful beta _Cessations_!

* * *

**Chapter 25**_ - Unsettling Investigations_

Severus placed his feathered quill down and stretched, wincing as he heard several of his bones pop loudly. He then slouched in his seat, sullenly looking down at the stack of papers before him. There must have been more than fifty places he'd had to sign, not to mention quite a few pages of annoyingly small fine print to get through. _Who knew it was such a hassle to get a single visit into Azkaban_, he thought to himself, annoyed. _One would've thought it would be so much easier to get in than get out_.

Overall, it wasn't too hard. The papers were quite straightforward and the details easy enough to comprehend. The only issue was the sheer _number_ of papers he had to get through, and keep it well enough hidden that no one would comment on it if they saw him shuffling through them during dinner or whatnot. Thank Merlin he was good with appearance-changing glamours (courtesy of his bastard of a father), or otherwise he'd have Albus all over him asking why he wanted to visit Azkaban.

The last thing he needed right now was another questioning from the Headmaster, after all.

Still, it was almost Christmas and he had to get this done before then. With one last flourish, he scrawled his name onto the last page and breathed a heavy sigh. _Done_. Now to send it to the Ministry and hope the damn idiots there would process it quickly enough to warrant him the designated hour-long visit before the season ended. Luckily for him, it seemed there was a new system for visitation rights to Azkaban, headed by some woman who was the descendant of Saint Mungo or something like that. He gave a mental salute to whoever had accomplished _that_ deed.

A polite knock at his door caused him to jerk his head up in surprise and begin to rapidly put away all of his papers, replacing them with harmless potions notes from a week ago as he called out a short "_Enter_".

Naturally, it was Albus.

"Hello my dear boy!" the cheerful wizard greeted, his nauseatingly bright clothing as annoying as ever. "Have you seen the snow outside?"

Severus glanced at the charmed window that the very same man had planted there a few months ago, which seemed to solely show a bright sunny day. In response to the inane question, he raised an eyebrow and sneered. "I have no time to go outside, Headmaster," he indicated at the numerous papers detailing his latest experiment strewn across his desk. "Obviously."

"Oh, don't be that way, Severus," Dumbledore insisted. "Come outside with the teachers and me; it seems Aurora has started a snowball fight and it's been quite fun!"

"Albus…" Snape trailed off warningly, glaring, leaving the rest of his unspoken savage reply hanging in the air. _Fun_ was not in Severus's natural vocabulary.

"Please?" the elderly man pleaded with a quirky smile.

"I have a lot of work—"

"Oh posh, dear boy, you can finish that Azkaban paperwork later," the Headmaster waved a gnarled hand in his direction. "Why don't you have some fun for now before heading out?"

"Azkaban?" Snape sneered, mentally gaping and furiously wondering how the man had found out. "Why ever would I want to go there—_again_?"

Albus smiled passively, his twinkling eyes positively glowing. "Oh, was I incorrect in my assessment then? Well, I still insist that you come on outside. A breath of fresh air would do you good, my dear child!"

Severus was seething inside. _That positively Slytherin--_! He thought savagely. It would've been a compliment to anyone else, but this was _Albus_.

"I'll be right up," he muttered grudgingly, glaring.

"Delightful!" Albus beamed, plopping a lemon drop into his mouth. "I shall await you outside then. Oh, and bring some gloves and a scarf! It's very cold outside!"

"Yes, _dad_," Severus spat, swiveling on one foot and stalking off into his personal rooms hidden behind a clever portrait on the far wall of his office, waving his wand over at his desk as he left in order to make the papers shuffle obediently inside their respective drawers, out of sight.

He left so fast he didn't notice the slight widening of Albus's eyes, and the merry glow his face had as he practically skipped out of the room in happiness.

Meanwhile, Snape was throwing on some thicker robes and wrapping his Slytherin scarf around his neck, having noted that it was below zero outside with a quick remote-tracking temperature spell. As he did this, his mind was reeling with the knowledge that Albus knew of his plans to visit Azkaban—how _did_ that man know everything? He had been sure his charms were perfect, and, as far as he knew, Albus did not possess an all-seeing eye.

_The portraits_? Severus wondered, and then shook his head. Impossible—even they were not bereft of the effects of his spells. He had never spoken about it aloud outside of his rooms, and even then never to anyone but himself. Perhaps it had been a lucky guess?

Well, whatever the cause, Severus was just glad the Headmaster had seemed to drop it when he'd nonchalantly shot the notion away.

He stalked out of his office minutes after, swooping up the stairs and gruffly wondering what sort of idiot had the bright idea to build such a steep staircase. All in all, the trip out of the dungeons did not take long—the air progressively got colder as he climbed, however, as there were no warming charms outside of his rooms. By the time he'd left the castle he was irate and freezing, fingering his wand and wondering if he should just charm his clothes warm and be done with it.

The landscape was beautiful: about a good foot and a half of snow lay twinkling innocently atop of the soil and peppering the trees as if it were Christmas already, the uncovered sun shining like the wrath of Apollo himself. In the distance the young Potions Master could see thick looming clouds of white and grey, which would surely release their load later on that night and pile up even more of the white powder on their heads.

Severus was so deeply mired in this train of thought that he almost did not sense the incoming projectile. He still somehow managed to not-so-gracefully leap out of the way, rolling on the snow and ultimately getting wetter than he would have had he not evaded the small snowball. Giving out an ungrateful squawk as he gathered himself up swiftly, he glared at whoever had dared throw such a thing at him—only to see Minerva _giggling_ behind her thick gloves as she leaned down to get another missile ready.

He had no time to protest her attack however, since Trelawney had seemingly missed her rather large target of Hagrid and had flung her own snowball in Snape's direction. This time, more prepared and aware, Severus merely dodged out of the way as he fluidly cursed the thrice-damned Divinations professor.

"What in the nine hells are you all doing!" he snarled, ducking another shot—this time from the beaming Headmaster. "Argh!"

"Oh don't be so touchy, Severus!" Minerva cried out as she laughingly threw yet another snowball in his general direction. "It's almost Christmas!"

"Must I remind you how old you all are!" Severus glared, brushing some hair out of his face that had fallen from jerking about. "You're all acting like children!"

"Loosen up, Severus!" Sinistra—the Astronomy teacher who had supposedly started this snowball nonsense—crowed, waving from behind a sizable snow barrier that helped her avoid getting hit. "All the children have gone home and there's no one to watch us, anyway!"

His scathing reply was cut short as he had to duck and dodge a barrage of snowballs from Filius, who was using his wand in an effort to overcome his size distinction. All the teachers paused in their attack to watch Severus skillfully evade all the shots, snarling back insults and using his own wand to throw extremely accurate snowballs in Flitwick's direction, causing the dwarf-sized man to have to hop around in order to avoid the brunt of the counterattacks.

"Wow," Pomona commented to Poppy, both witches having decided to stay on the sidelines to avoid getting hit. "I didn't know Severus was so agile."

"You never saw him fight back against James Potter and his gang," Poppy smiled fondly, recalling Severus's younger days. "He gave as good as he got, that boy."

Unaware of those who were watching him, Severus grit his teeth and pounded Filius with yet another barrage, simultaneously _Expelliarmus_'ing his wand out of reach, all with a silent flick. Flitwick dug himself out while laughing, huffing out gusts of white mist as he congratulated Severus for the win.

"That was amazing!" the small man chirped. "Extraordinary! Merlin boy, if you'd dueled like that in my time, I'd never have become a dueling champion!"

Snape, utterly unused to praise, could not help but turn a bit red. "Lies," he mumbled, helping Flitwick to his feet. Another snowball, this time from Hagrid, cut his words in half again as the fight resumed. Without words, Severus and Filius ganged up together against the half-giant, whom was quickly backed up by Sprout and Pomfrey. Consecutively, all the remaining teachers joined a side and evened out the match, half of them out of breath from laughing so hard.

Not to be deterred, Albus stood in the sidelines, cheering and refereeing, beaming. Severus supposed he thought himself too good for either side; alas, Albus was doing such in order to keep an eye on the spirit that was contentedly sitting on an entrance gargoyle, viewing the spectacle with a large grin.

Quite enjoying the scene, Harry placed his chin on a knee, swinging the other leg absently as he muffled a laugh behind his hand. _See Severus_, the ghost thought to himself with a small grin. _You do know how to have fun_!

Eventually, the cold got to them all and the snowball fight stopped, with Severus's team winning as the other group had called the ceasefire first. Turning a brick red from the amount of teasing he was receiving from the other teachers in the form of praise and cheers since he'd pretty much overpowered most of the other team single-handedly, the young Potions Master snarled out something and stalked off with a vague excuse that he had to collect some herbs from the forest. Laughing at his reaction, Harry leapt off the gargoyle and followed, deciding to reveal himself only when they were sufficiently far away from the other teachers as to not arouse suspicion as it would appear to them that Severus was talking to himself.

"I know you're there," Severus startled Harry by saying, his back still turned as he continued to trudge through the snow into the forest. "I can feel you."

"Wow," Harry remarked cheerfully, floating beside him now that he'd been spotted. "You're getting rather good at sensing me around."

"Hn," the man murmured contemplatively. "I guess you're right."

"Someone please put that in writing!" Harry crowed. "You actually admitted I'm right!"

"Oh shut up," Snape grumbled, but there was a slight tugging at his upper lip, indicating a very small smirk. "Just don't quote me on that."

"I wouldn't dream of it," the spirit laughed. "So anyway, are you really going off to the forest to look for herbs?"

"I am indeed," Severus nodded briskly. "It was my intention to head out sooner, but I seem to have forgotten to do my errands because of some paperwork. When the Headmaster asked me to come outside, I remembered and I might as well do it now rather than come back out later, when it's colder."

"Oh, I see," Harry nodded slowly. "That makes sense. Still doing your research, then?"

"Of sorts," Severus said, and came to a stop beside a very large tree. They were about a quarter of a mile into the forest, and it was quite dark and less snowy because of the blocking canopy. The Potions Master had long since taken out his wand to light up their path, scaring off a few curious creatures that had decided to follow them. "I believe this is it."

Harry drew closer, breath fogging up about him. "What is it?" He didn't see anything.

"Not that," Severus shook his head, indicating the tree. "But _this_."

With a gloved hand, the man uncovered a patch of recently shifted dirt and revealed a seemingly delicate sprout that had been making its way to the surface. It was a grotesque shade of green, and it had small needle-sized spikes beginning to grow from its sides.

"What…?"

"Let's test you on your knowledge, Harry," Severus smirked, looking up to his companion as he rested on one knee. "What harmful plant greatly resembles the otherwise harmless Flitterbloom? It likes dark and damp places, making this part of the Forbidden Forest a perfect habitat for it."

"Um…" Harry racked his head—he couldn't for the life of him remember any sort of plant with the name of 'Flitterbloom', let alone one that looked like the ugly little sprout that Severus had uncovered. As for the dark and damp, however, he vaguely recalled Hermione (a twinge of pain ran through his heart at the thought of her) saying something about that…

"I know!" Harry exclaimed suddenly, beaming. How could he have forgotten? "It's Devil's Snare, right?"

Looking somewhat surprised, Severus nodded. "I didn't expect you to know that, considering your self-proclaimed lacking knowledge of potions and their ingredients. But yes, you are correct—this is a budding sprout of Devil's Snare I planted here a week ago. The best season to plant these is the winter, as they are too weak to flower during any other season. It is only until they are about a month old that its vines leave the soil; but when they do, they rise in great amounts—unless you confine their patch of dirt to a small pot, or something of the like. Which is what I will be doing today."

"Oh," Harry slowly, recalling his experience with the little thing in the ground. "Do you need Devil's Snare for a potions experiment?"

"Not really," Severus shook his head. "They aren't particularly useful in most every-day solutions. But Devil's Snare is quite rare on the market since it's difficult to transport, and so I thought it would be a good idea to store a pot of it in a cupboard until I need it. I could seal the entrance and let it grow there, and if I ever needed a bit of it I could just simply get if from the stores. It's the plant's growing season right now, in any case."

"That's smart," the spirit nodded in understanding. "Couldn't you grow it in a simulated room, though? Just make it cold, damp and dark and plant it there."

"Contrary to popular belief," Severus murmured, going into lecture-mode as he magicked a pot out of thin air and began to carefully trace a circle on the ground with his wand. "Most magical plants cannot grow in a simulated environment—rather, they must be collected from the wild. Hogwarts' own greenhouse, however, has been exposed to magic and is close enough to the forest that this does not affect the plants within much. But there is no doubt that the most effective and pure plants must grow in the wild if you want to get the most of their potential."

"I didn't know that," Harry blinked. "They never taught me that in Herbology."

Snape extracted a cylindrical patch of dirt, supposedly with the Devil's Snare seed, root and sprout within, and neatly dumped the entire mess into his magicked pot.

"I guess you learn something new every day then," Severus smirked. "Besides, it doesn't really matter for the common individual's needs. Indeed, even Potions Masters like me don't need to know, since most don't go around planting their own ingredients. However, if one is looking for the best quality…it's good to grow them yourself."

"Goes to show why you're the youngest, smartest and most successful Potions Master, eh?" Harry laughed, praising Severus and patting him on the back.

"I am the youngest," Severus acknowledged, and shrugged. "But I am definitely not the most successful."

"Yet," Harry wagged a finger in his face. "The world just has to wait till you show 'em all how badass you are."

Raising an eyebrow, Snape's lips twitched until he could hold it no longer and burst out laughing. "Only you, Harry," the Potions Master chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Only you."

Motioning for him to follow, the pair walked out of the forest and trudged through the increasing pile of snow into the castle, their breath fogging around them. They bumped into Filch on the way to the dungeons, but he was quickly taken care of with a brisk nod of Snape's head and off they went without another remark. For a moment of panic, Harry thought he'd been spotted as much younger Ms Norris began to mewl and follow him for a few seconds, before Severus shooed her off with a glare and she returned to her master.

Once they were safely ensconced in Severus's quarters, Harry let out an explosive sigh and floated onto the couch, collapsing on it. "Stupid cat," he muttered huffily. "I almost had a heart attack back there!"

Severus glanced at Harry, pausing only to gently stuff the potted Devil's Snare into a spare cupboard and ward it shut. "You do seem to look more physical lately," he noted quietly, sitting at the edge of the couch, a few inches from Harry's head. Using a hand, he ran through Harry's hair and lifted the lengthening strands. Harry watched him quietly, staring at Snape's long fingers.

"I could see your breath outside," Snape continued. "And you patted my back and I felt it. Do you feel a tugging yet?" He let Harry's stands of hair fall back down and rested his hand on his head instead.

"No," Harry said quietly. "Not really. Do you?"

"No," Severus sighed, and leaned back against the couch, absentmindedly massaging Harry's scalp in slow, soothing strokes. "Merlin, I've got so much paperwork to do and not enough time to do it."

"Rest for now," Harry suggested, closing his eye. "Take a nap. When you wake up, you'll finish it in no time."

"Hn," Severus agreed.

"Should we talk any more?" Harry murmured.

"Not if you have anything stupid to say." Severus snorted, closing his own eyes.

"Haha, very funny."

They did not say much after that.

x°x x°x x°x

In the depths of the sixth level of Azkaban a prisoner stirred, savage and insane eyes blinking open as a smile spread across his face. Ice began to crawl up around his chin to his lips as uncontrollable shivers consumed his body. A crowd of three wandering Dementors paused by his cell—Sixty-Five—and began to wail, sending shudders up the prisoner's frame. Contrary to any outsider's suspicions though, it was not of fear or cold, but of excitement.

"I've seen what you do," the prisoner whispered fiercely, crawling forward to the front of his cell to stare up at the hooded creatures that shrieked just a few inches from him. "And I want to become you."

Reaching forward, he stood and sent his wayward arms through the bars, clutching at a Dementor's skinny, bone-like hand.

"Take me," he growled, insane eyes wide with pleasure. "Take me and let me become you."

With keening cries, the Dementors flung themselves at the cell and seemingly_slid_ by the bars, crowding around the prisoner's body as they toppled over him, covering him, consuming him. When the increased crowd of four left a few minutes later, there was nothing left of their voluntary victim but an empty shell of a person with a creepy, dead smile.

x°x x°x x°x

Gawain Robards was not pleased.

Ever since he had arrived at Azkaban two months ago, nothing seemed to be in order. He was required to serve three months of Azkaban duty since he was of higher rank than the regular Auror, and he understood the necessity of it, but this didn't mean he was happy about it.

Still, this was not the source of his displeasure.

No, in fact, what was ticking him off was the amount of Dementors crawling about. This post's predecessor—some chap going by the queer first name of 'Williamson'—had reported the dwindling amount of Dementors, citing that they seemed to be reckless and departing Azkaban at an alarming rate. He assured the Headquarters that they would disappear into the mist but there were no reports of Dementor sightings beyond Azkaban, which he then concluded was because they were most probably perishing out at sea.

None of the fools at the Ministry had been able to say if this was good or bad news, what with the whole concept of Azkaban centering on the fact that Dementors were there to make people miserable, but the entire mess had now turned on its head and become worse. Because the Dementors that had left were not the ones increasing the population—no, it now seemed as if the Dementors were, for lack of a better word, _consuming_ the prisoners. Rather than simply Kissing the stupid inmates that got too close to the creatures, they were eating their souls and then _spitting them back out_ to produce another soul-sucking fiend.

It was insanity.

Gawain was not exactly sure what to do. Though the increasing lack of Dementors had been a cause of concern before, this new situation was ridiculous. Despite wanting to punish the murderers and Death Eaters that were enclosed within Azkaban, he was not pleased with the fact that now these inmates were getting Kissed without expressive Ministry permission and were being turned into Dementors themselves, to spread the plague. Although he'd been handing out bottled _Patroni_ and other assortment of magical protective knickknacks to his aurors as a defense measurement lest they, too, get turned into Dementors, it wasn't enough.

And the Ministry was far too busy with the Right's people knocking on their door to pay any attention to his reports. The only reply he'd gotten was the equivalent of a pat on the head and a dismissal that "the situation couldn't possibly be as bad as he made it out to be".

Gawain Robards loved his job. He truly did. And he whole-heartedly believed in the Ministry's ideals. But this was beyond rationality—it was pure, reckless stupidity!

He desperately wished Benjy were here. Though his friend was of lower standing, he was nonetheless a fine auror and a great companion. Surely with him by his side, he would be able to figure out how to deal with this dilemma.

_Don't be selfish, Robards_, he berated himself, frowning. Benjy had left several weeks ago, his yearly Azkaban duty done, and it would be plainly cruel to ask for him to return just to have someone rational to talk to.

But still, he had to do something, and soon.

"Gawain?" the resident Azkaban nurse called to him, popping her head through the door and seeking him. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Ah," his head snapped up and he waved to her from his desk, behind a clutter of pens, cups and ink. "Madam Bonham, please come in. What is it?"

Matlida Bonham had somehow willingly become Azkaban's much-needed doctor, and visited the island on a weekly basis to check up on prisoners. At times she would bring one or two companions with her, to make the load quicker, but she usually came alone. It still amazed Gawain that she was returning voluntarily, with genuine concern for the prisoners under his care. He was grateful for her persistent company, nonetheless. What with familiar faces of fellow aurors going away with every two weeks, it was difficult to adjust.

"I just finished my rounds on the first floor for the week, and I was just reporting in to say that I'm heading back to Saint Mungo's in about an hour, once the ferry comes by."

"That's wonderful," Robards smiled. "Thank you very much for coming, you have no idea how grateful I am to have you here. I wish you the safest journey home."

"Thank you," Madam Bonham said, and then paused. "Excuse me for prying, but you look a bit pale. Have you taken the chocolate I prescribed today?"

Gawain's smile became rather tight. "I have indeed, madam, it was very good. But I am no less pale than yesterday—must be because of all the lack of sunlight. I'll be fine, don't worry about me."

Frowning, Matilda came in and stalked over to him, causing the auror to jerk back in surprise.

"Madam…?"

"You are very pale, sir," she insisted. "I might even say at a glance that you've got a fever."

"I have no such thing," Gawain waved a nonchalant hand. "I'm simply tired and pale from work and stress."

"Hm," she eyed him carefully. "Do you mind if I stay for another day, then? I just want to make sure. There is an extra bed in the female auror's quarters—I've checked."

"Madam, you need not—"

"I've decided already," Matilda huffed. "Sheesh, you men with your pride. Don't worry, I am merely going to check you quickly tomorrow morning and then I will be on my way. Is that all right?"

"Do as you wish," the man sighed. "Just be careful if you make another round about. Make sure to have an escort at all times—the Dementors are spawning everywhere, and it's no longer safe to wander about alone."

She nodded briskly and, stealing another worried glance at his palour, left the room and disappeared down the corridor.

"That woman is going to be the death of me," Gawain rubbed his temples. Now that he thought about it though, he did feel a bit sick. He could not abandon his post on sick-leave for something as measly as the flu, however, and would have to brave it out until the end of the month.

It was a bit of a shame, really. Though he had no family at home, it would've been nice to spend Christmas and New Years Eve somewhere far away from Azkaban. And to think he and his companions would have to somehow round up all the Dementors and coral them somewhere as a present for the inmates on both Christmas and New Years…how they'd managed that all these years remained a mystery to him.

A few more days till Christmas, and it would be a day off for all of them. Sighing yet again, he reclined in his chair and resolved to drink another cup of chocolate. The added calories were better than fainting from the ever-present presence of the spawning Dementors.

* * *

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